


Things That Shine

by coffeebuddha



Series: Manic Mondays [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Babbling, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Get Together, Gratuitous Food Mentions, Hardcore Cuddling, M/M, Misunderstanding, Multi, Schmoop, So Much Touching, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy was seven the first time she fell in love. </p>
<p>The second time it happens, she's twenty-five, hung over as all get out, and has a real chance of getting shot, which is actually more alarming than the giant green guy who's holding her hostage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Darcy was seven the first time she fell in love. Some people would probably call it an unconventional romance since the recipient of her affections was a stray dog that lived on her street, but Darcy had developed a fuck-the-haters mentality pretty early on. Her dad was severely allergic to pretty much everything with fur, so bringing him inside the house or even around the back into the yard was a strict no go. Darcy saw that as a challenge, not a deterrent.

He was a purebred mutt with huge, dark chocolate brown eyes, a bent tail that had obviously been broken at least once, and masses of fur that curled like springs. She named him McScruff the Wonder Dog and loved him with all the loyalty and devotion that her young heart could muster.

"You're my dog now," she told him. It was raining out and they were hiding in the little ramshackle fort she'd built in the woods behind her house. McScruff smelled of wet dog and bad breath and possibly dead squirrel, but that didn't stop Darcy from taking his face between her hands and leaning in until their noses were touching. Her mom had always told her that eye contact was important when you were trying to make a point, so she did her very best to look him right in the eyes, even though it made hers cross a little bit. "And I will never,  _ever_ let anything bad happen to you."

McScruff snuffled and gave her cheek a sloppy kiss, which meant he loved her too.

Things were great until Darcy was nine and Tommy Jerkins moved in down the road. He was a year older than Darcy, and clever enough to be cruel without getting caught. It was a fluke that Darcy stumbled across him throwing rocks at McScruff at all. She'd screamed, her voice loud and shrill enough to bring her mom running from the house, but Tommy talked himself out of trouble and Darcy couldn't talk McScruff into the house. It was only a matter of time, really, because McScruff was the kindest, sweetest, gentlest dog in the world, but he was still  _Darcy's_ dog, and there was only so far you could push any part of Darcy before it started pushing back.

The day after Tommy ran home crying with a bloody, bitten leg, animal control came to take McScruff from Darcy's fort while she was in school.

She never even got a chance to say goodbye.

The second time Darcy falls in love, she's twenty-five, hung over as all get out, and has a real chance of getting shot, which is actually more alarming than the giant green guy who's holding her hostage. Then there's the kissing and the falling and the nakedness, and somewhere in the whole mess of the thing, Darcy can't help but notice sweet brown eyes and soft, curly hair.

It's McScruff all over again.

* * *

Darcy's contemplating the best way to convince the med team to put her into a medically induced coma until all of her everythings stop hurting when a quietly cleared throat makes her jump. That's just kind of one big  _ow_ all over, and she can't quite keep from wincing. When she slides her sunglasses far enough down her nose so that she can peer over them, there's Banner with a horrified look on his face. She blinks up at him while her glasses slip perilously low to the very tip of her nose, and Banner clears his throat again.

"Your wrist." His voice is almost meek, definitely a little on the strangled side, and Darcy is so used to dealing with scientists like Jane and Tony Stark that it takes a moment for her to get past his tone to what he actually said.

"Oh," she says and sits up a little straighter. There's a ring of bruises blossoming dark and ugly around her right wrist, just low enough to peek out from underneath the edge of her sleeve. "It's nothing. Plus, it's a nothing that's not your fault."

"I grabbed you," he says, and yep. That's definitely the voice of a guy who's choking on his words. "I watched the surveillance videos and I saw the other guy grab your arm. I'm so sorry."

 _Shit, this guy is really good at the whole puppy dog eyes thing_ , Darcy thinks. Also, that officially rules out any jokes that she might have made about the bruises that are starting to show up on her waist and the slight twinge in her ribs when she inhales too deeply, but the wrist thing really  _isn't_ Banner's fault, so she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. (Under the circumstances, it probably shouldn't be funny that he shrinks a little at her glare, but fuck it. She just made the freaking Hulk  _flinch_. That's a little funny.) "Okay, this is me forbidding you to feel bad about things that you A) didn't do and B) maybe kind of accidentally did a tiny bit while you were having a temper tantrum that would put one of those toddlers in tiaras to shame.  _Not that I'm blaming you._ "

"I'm so sorry," Banner tells her again, because he  _doesn't listen_ ; technically he tells the potted plant slightly to her right since he can't quite seem to make himself look at her. Darcy's pretty certain he tracked her down to her desk. He usually spends all of his time either broing it up at Stark Tower with its namesake or in his lab at the far, most deserted end of the facility. (It's possible he's here to see Coulson, since his office is all of three feet from Darcy's desk what with her being his assistant and all, but she's going to go with the answer behind door number one. It's just better for her ego.)

"Dude, chillax," Darcy says. He's still staring way too intently at Fergie the fern, which is so not flattering when Darcy's having a hair and boob day  _this good._ She scoots her rolly chair back enough so that she can pop up and circle around to the front of her desk. Poking at Bruce Banner is almost exactly like poking at a sleeping giant, and pretty much anyone would agree that's a whole other level of stupid, but that doesn't stop Darcy from putting the pad of her index finger against the hollow of his cheek and pushing until his eyes more or less meet hers. 

" _Seriously._ You did  _not_ leave me with the kinky looking wrist bruises. This is so not an issue. It's a non-issue. Getting a one handed hug from your Mr. Hyde wasn't even the most perilous part of my morning. It didn't even make the top  _three_ of life scarring shit that happened before noon."

"Really?" Banner finally does look at her then, all adorably perplexed eyebrows that nearly disappear into messy hair that Darcy wants to pet. She wonders if his hair is sentient. It looks like it could possibly be sentient, and it seems like nothing could feasibly be classified as 'too improbable' in a world where gamma rays can turn mild mannered scientists green and her boss faking his own death is just another day at the office. She hops up to sit on the edge of her desk and pulls a face.

"Let's just say that I never want to try any kind of combat training with Natasha ever again." She pauses when Banner snorts a laugh. He looks almost surprised about it, like he wasn't expecting that to happen, and Darcy smacks at his shoulder. "Not funny! I have bruises in places that should never be bruised."

There's that guilty look again. That's really not going to work for Darcy, especially now that she's seen him smile, because  _hello_ cuteness.

"So not your wrists, then," Banner says. "But I still-"

"Nope," Darcy cuts him off. She pushes at his chest. It would be so much easier to stop touching him if he would stop leaning into it like he's not used to the sensation, and maybe she should talk to Fury about instituting a Hugs for Heroes program, because no one who saves the world should be this fucking touch starved. "No more apologizing. This is a no apologizing zone. Don't make me post a sign, because I totally will. I will post a sign and get Natasha to enforce the fine, and the only people who won't owe me money by the end of the day will be Director Eyepatch and Tony Stark."

"Okay," he says slowly. He's giving her the kind of looks that Jane does when Darcy's just said or done something that makes her doubt her sanity, but the corners of his mouth are twitching the tiniest bit. That's got to be a good sign.

"Granted, I would definitely put those signs everywhere if Stark was the apologizing type," Darcy says. She holds her hand out and Banner only hesitates for a moment before offering her his to help her off her desk. Not that it's a long drop or anything, but a girl's got to get what she can, where she can. "Can you imagine how much money I could rake in if someone could invent a machine that would make Stark apologize for all the things he does that deserve one?"

She stares up at Banner, who hasn't seemed to notice yet that they're standing a lot closer than is generally considered socially acceptable or that he's still holding her hand. When he doesn't answer, she says, "A lot, for the record. It would be a  _lot_ of money. Like, buy a penthouse in Manhattan and pay in full at the closing, a lot."

"You've thought about this," Banner says, half statement and half question. His thumb is slowly rubbing back and forth across her knuckles, oddly similar to the way her aunt used to rub at the worry stone she'd always carried in her pocket. It's nice, she decides. Plus, it's making her stomach feel all warm and fluttery. Darcy would totally be willing to be Banner's worry stone.

"Not really." Darcy grins up at him and leans back just enough to snag her purse by the strap. "But I'd be more than willing to tell you about all the ways I want to spend Stark's money over a late lunch." She pauses. "Your treat, of course."

"Lunch?" Banner's eyes flicker to the door of Coulson's office. Maybe he's here to see the boss man after all, which would be disappointing for so many reasons. She has just enough time to get a good sad going over it and mentally start reviewing all the ways she could con him into having lunch with her anyway before Banner looks back down at her. "Why is it my treat?"

Darcy laughs and disentangles their hands so that she can hook her arm through his. He still looks slightly dazed and doesn't try to pull away when she leans up against him. "Easy. You're not allowed to apologize, but that doesn't mean you can't try to make it up to me with falafels."

"Seems reasonable enough," Banner says, and lets Darcy lead him toward the exit. And that right there? That is the definite beginning of a smile. Darcy's pretty certain she can award herself about a billion life points for that one. A billion points seems about right for making the world's biggest Mr. Grumpy smile.

"I'm always reasonable," she says with a little head bop against his shoulder. "I'm the epitome of reasonable. If there was an Olympic event for reasonableness, I'd take the gold every time. And my abundance of reasonableness is why I've arranged the ways I'd spend Stark's money into categories. Category one: All the shoes."

"All the shoes," Banner asks with an arched eyebrow and something that's close to a laugh. "How many shoes does one person really need?"

Darcy looks at him as seriously as she can manage and says, " _All of them._ "


	2. Chapter 2

"So," Darcy says around a mouthful of falafel. "Is it offensive if I tell you that you make me think of Kermit the frog on steroids?"

"What?" Banner looks startled, but startled isn't angry, so Darcy thinks she's probably still in the clear.

"Kermit the frog." She takes another, even bigger bite. She's having lunch with the Hulk. There is no denying that she's the daintiest fucking thing in this booth, no matter what she does. "You know, from the Muppets? 'Hi ho, Kermit the frog here to smash!'"

Banner just stares at her. Darcy wants to take pictures of his and Jane's 'How have you not been institutionalized yet?' stares so that she can compare them side by side.

"It's okay to be intimidated by my Kermit the frog impression," she says in a stage whisper. "It's pretty kick ass, so most people are."

"I don't even play the banjo," Banner blurts out.

Darcy nearly snorts special sauce out her nose. There's an awkward moment where she's caught between laughing and choking, and Banner is out of his seat and crowding into her side to pat at her back and shove his glass of water at her. He finally backs off a little when she flails a hand at him while chugging his drink, but he stays perched on her bench.

"Sorry," he says, a pathetic little furrow starting to form between his eyebrows. Darcy tips sideways until her shoulder knocks into his bicep.

"Oh, don't you even, Kermit" she says. "I'm not playing round two of that game here."

"Right. I don't think I have the cash on me to pay your fine, and Natasha's version of interest would probably be painful," he says wryly. Darcy laughs again--all food and beverages safely on the table now--and points accusingly at him. He's too busy watching the paper straw wrapper that he's threading slowly through his fingers to actually look at her, but the corner of his mouth is hooked up in a small smile.

"You're  _funny_ ," she says in delight. "Why is that not in your file? They couldn't have sandwiched that in between 'genius geneticist' and 'shit at racquetball'?"

"That's actually in there?"

Darcy steals his straw wrapper. "It was last week when I had to add a note about the lobster incident."

"How would SHIELD even know if I'm good at racquetball or not," Banner asks, though it sounds like he's asking the universe at large more than Darcy specifically. She shrugs and tears the wrapper in two. A short dig in her purse unearths a pen.

"Ours is not to question how or why," she says in her best philosophical voice as she bends over the paper strips. She writes 'falafel' on one and 'friends' on the other. "Ours is just to accept that shit is fucked up and Fury probably stalks us all for fun. Hand."

Banner blinks at her, and Darcy rolls her eyes and makes grabby motions at his hand. For a second she thinks he's not going to respond, but then he hesitantly lifts his hand and offers it to her. She flashes her prettiest smile at him and places his hand on the table, maneuvering his fingers around for a few seconds before settling on his pinkie.

"You never answered my question," she points out. It takes a little fumbling to knot the paper around his pinkie without tearing it, but the clear befuddlement on his face is totally worth it.

"What question would that be, again," he asks with his hand up in the air. He turns his hand this way and that to examine the makeshift ring and Darcy is very, very tempted to pinch his cheek. Instead she starts trying to tie her own half of the wrapper around her thumb.

"About Kermit." She scrunches her nose up in frustration as the wrapper keeps slipping out of her grip and threatening to tear. She jumps a little when Banner reaches out to help, but that's totally just surprise, not protest, and she practically shoves her hand at him when he moves to withdraw. "Is it offensive? Do you think it's politically incorrect to frogs or anything? Demeaning to hulks, maybe?"

Banner's touch is firm and sure, but so achingly gentle that something clenches hard in Darcy's chest. She bounces in her seat and chews on her lower lip to keep from blurting out anything too inappropriate.

"I don't think it works like that," Banner says. Darcy's lost the train of their conversation in the last few beats of her too loud heart and she releases her bite on her lip before catching up with what he means.

"Eh," she says with a wave of her free hand. "Like you really know what frogs think."

The smile Banner gives her is close mouthed, but sweet, and Darcy's clench turns into a flutter.

"We could ask Tony to build some kind of universal translator next time he gets bored and has one too many drinks," he suggests. One last tug on the wrapper and an almost unnoticeable brush of calloused fingertips over the fleshy part of her part of her palm, and Banner lets go of her hand. "He would probably say yes."

"Not a bad plan, but it'd probably be faster to ask Thor, whenever he gets back. He claims he can speak every language, even animal." She snuggles up against Banner's side--what, it's  _cold_ in the restaurant, okay?--and admires her MacGyvered friendship ring. He doesn't pull away; if anything, some of the tension in his frame eases out and he relaxes slightly against her.

" _Really_ ," Banner says. Look at that, she thinks when she glances up at him. He has another expression in common with Jane. That's definitely a 'Jinkies, I smell a fascinating mystery!' look, if ever there was one. Darcy idly wonders what he'd look like in an orange turtleneck and knee socks.

Eh, probably not so much. Maybe an ascot, though?

"Apparently it's some kind of Norse god thing," she says.

"I wonder how that would work," he muses. He's threaded their fingers together again, apparently completely unaware that he's doing it, and Darcy is starting to wonder if he's actually a closet fidgeter. "Do you think he'd let me study him if he gets back?"

"When," Darcy says firmly. "If he doesn't come back, I'll  _find_ some way to track him down and taser him again."

Darcy didn't think someone's eyes could get as wide as Banner's do. "You tasered the Norse god of lightning?"

And when you put it like that, it sounds pretty damn impressive, so Darcy tips her chin up a little like it's no big thing. "Well, he wasn't exactly running on all cylinders at the time," she says modestly.

Banner opens his mouth, maybe to ask a question or compliment her badassery, but he's interrupted by an obnoxious beeping from his cellphone. His face abruptly blanks and she can feel the thrum of tension immediately returning to his muscles. When she peeks out the window, two black SUVs are pulling up to the sidewalk.

"There's a problem," Banner says, as if Darcy hadn't already worked that out for herself.

No shit, she doesn't say, because she's trying this new thing called restraint. " _No_ , that doesn't sound like SHIELD  _at all_ ," she says, because it turns out she's kind of crap at restraint.

Banner quirks another smile at her as he herds her out the door to one of the waiting SUVs. She grabs his elbow when he starts to turn away, and when he looks down at her she goes up on her toes and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. 

"For luck," she says when Banner touches his cheek in surprise, like she hasn't done that and more to him before. He doesn't say anything, though, or at least Darcy can't hear him if he does over the sound traffic and an agent yelling in her ear about getting in the car and getting back to headquarters.

* * *

It's not like she's worried or anything. She's the one who files the paperwork that Coulson fills out, so she knows the entire team came out of their engagement with HYDRA with nothing more than some scrapes and bruises. There's no  _point_ in worrying. That doesn't mean she expects to see any of the Avengers in the office the next day, though.

Apparently Banner missed the you-escaped-death-so-have-a-snow-day-on-us memo, though, because Darcy looks up from her paperwork at about noon in an attempt to uncross her eyes and Banner's slinking over toward her desk like he fully expects to be shooed away.

"Hey," Darcy says, her pen falling out of her mouth. Huh. She'd forgotten she'd put that there.

"You're busy," Banner says. He's about to make a break for it; Darcy has a sixth sense about men trying to run away from her.

"It's nothing I couldn't blow off for an hour while I get lunch," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Banner's still acting uncertain, though, and he's rolling something between his fingers. It's a piece of paper, and when he pauses for a moment, Darcy can just make out an 'f' on the end of it. Darcy's dead tired, her head and fingers hurt, and her paper cuts have paper cuts, but her smirk turns into a soft, genuine smile completely without her permission.

"You could maybe get lunch with me, if you want," she prompts.

"Tony said," Banner cuts himself off with a sharp shake of his head, presses his lips into a tight line for a moment before continuing. "Tony said that when Thor originally came to earth, he was romantically involved with a woman here?"

Darcy stares up at him, completely uncomprehending.

Banner's eyebrows are drawn and his body language is defensive, arms crossed over his chest like a shield.

Wait.

Oh.

_Oh._

"Jane," Darcy says quickly. "He had a thing with Jane, my old boss."

"Oh," Banner says, his arms slowly dropping to his sides. Hell  _yeah_ , 'oh', Darcy thinks. So very much 'oh'. She grins at him and scoops up her purse.

"So, what are your thoughts on scrapple," asks Darcy.

"Is it anything like scrabble," Banner asks and offers his arm when she reaches out for it.

"Oh, honey, you may be the genius, but I have so much to teach you," Darcy says with a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Scrapple](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scrapple)
> 
>  
> 
> , for those not in the know. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for the kind words and kudos! I'm blown away by how many people seem to like this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude with Jane.

"No," Jane says. If she was standing instead of sitting on Darcy's desk, Darcy thinks she'd probably have stomped her foot. Instead she plants her heel against Darcy's armrest and pushes so that she spins around in a circle. "No, I'm putting my foot down. There is no way you can date him. He turns into a giant rage monster!"

"Eh, I've dated shadier guys," Darcy points out as she propels her way out of Jane's range. It's harder than it sounds; Jane has freaky gazelle legs. 

"Plus, he's old enough to be your father, Darcy," Jane continues as if Darcy hadn't said anything. Darcy tears off a corner of a post-it note, balls it up, and throws it at her head. It hangs stuck in her hair and she doesn't notice. Darcy balls up another small piece. "He's going to take advantage of you. You're a delicate flower in the first bloom of her maidenhood and he's going to despoil you!"

"One, I think I'm the one who's probably going to take advantage of him." Tear, ball, toss. "Two, I was despoiled when I was fifteen by Bobby Hunt in his parents' basement after we drank a case of his older sister's wine coolers." Tear, ball, toss. "Three, stop talking like Thor. It's seriously disturbing. Maidenhood? Despoil? No. Just no."

"Darcy." Jane slides off the desk and takes Darcy by her shoulders, bending down until they're eye to eye. "If he asks you to take a look at his etchings, you can say no. It's  _okay_ to say no."

Darcy grips Jane's elbows and says, "If he ever gets up the nerve to ask me to look at his etchings, I will blow him on the spot. If he actually has etchings? I'll do the sort of things that my sister would balk at to him." She pauses, because that maybe needs clarification. "My sister is the Queen of the Sluts. There was a coronation in New Orleans during Mardi Gras and everything."

Jane has that pinched look that means she despairs of Darcy and everything she chooses to be. "I remember getting the announcement you sent out in the mail."

"Well, I was really proud," Darcy says. "We never thought she'd ever amount to anything."

"Not really the point right now." Jane gives Darcy's shoulders a little shake. "We're talking about your poor life choices, not your sister's. You should never date a scientist, especially one who's that much older than you and unstable in pretty much every sense of the word. Scientists are not good boyfriends, and I would know. Neither are unstable guys. Again, I would know."

"You know you're not actually my mom, right?"

Jane pushes Darcy's glasses up her nose and leans back against the desk. "You are my lab assistant. That is a bond more sacred than anything between a parent and child."

"I haven't actually worked for you in over a year," Darcy points out. Jane crosses her arms over her chest and glares.

"Sacred. Bond." She punctuates the words with a sharp jab of her finger to Darcy's shoulder. Darcy pouts and rubs at the spot; another ball of paper joins the others in Jane's hair. "Which is why I'm fully within my rights to forbid you from seeing Dr. Banner."

Jane stares at Darcy.

Darcy stares at Jane.

"He made me candied bacon," Darcy says, producing the little ribbon wrapped ziplock bag out of her jacket pocket.

Darcy stares at Jane. 

Jane stares at Darcy.

"Marry him," Jane says as she stuffs a piece into her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse other than that I really want to make/eat candied bacon and my house is sadly lacking in bacon at the moment...


	4. Chapter 4

It takes six more lunches and three spontaneous visits to Banner’s lab before he notices that Darcy’s still calling him ‘Dr. Banner’ on the rare occasions she doesn’t default to a pet or nickname.

“You don’t have to call me that, you know,” he says. His ears are pink, Darcy notices _._

“Do what,” she asks, because she’s distracted by the ears and the pink and the general adorableness. It’s not her fault; that shit is super distracting.

He clears his throat and trades her grilled pineapple chunks for his chocolate humus. “You can call me Bruce.” A barely noticeable twist of his fingers that she doesn’t have to be a behavior expert to know is an almost controlled nervous tick. “I don’t mind.”

Darcy grins at him and steals back one of her pineapple chunks to dip in the humus. “Sure thing, Bruce.”

The pink spreads to his cheeks. _Adorable._

* * *

 “I’m not used to being on this side of this conversation or, well, either side of it really, so I’m warning you in advance that this might get rough.”

Darcy jumps, one hand scrambling to flip her browser from Tumblr to the ‘Please Don’t Blow Up The Break Room Again’ powerpoint she’s supposed to be putting together for Coulson while the other sweeps a pile of loose paperwork over her half finished crossword puzzle.  Her coffee tips over, and her resulting lunge to try and grab it ends up scattering papers, post-its, and pens everywhere. A finger--calloused and grease stained with a thin half crescent of black grime imbedded under the nail--hooks into the edge of her mug and steadies it before more than a couple of drops can spill, and when Darcy looks up to grin her thanks, she has to pause and blink, because holy shit, that’s Tony Stark.

(It’s not hero worship or anything. It’s just that in all the times Stark’s been in and out of the office, he’s never given her any more notice than the occasional casual leer at her chest. So this? It’s a little different.)

“Conversation,” Darcy asks dumbly. God, his sunglasses are cool. She wonders if she could pull them off. Maybe he’ll let her try them on. Maybe this whole thing will go badly and she’ll start crying and he’ll let her _have them_. Darcy starts thinking about super sad things like melted popsicles and Halloween costumes that don’t look even a little like what they’re supposed to be just in case she needs to bring the tears. “Were we talking about something?”

Stark hitches his hip up on the edge of her desk and gives her a definite once-over over the top of his sunglasses. Darcy snaps her fingers and points at her face, rolling her shoulders forward to close her blouse a little bit more, though hell if she’s going to do up another button. Stark smirks at her, unapologetic, and Darcy would be lying if she acted like she doesn’t like him a little more for it.

“Bruce,” Stark says. His posture is all leaning, slumpy casualness, but Darcy gets the feeling he’s anything but.

“Sweet guy,” Darcy offers, since Stark seems to have stalled at Bruce’s name. “A little trouble with anger management, but we all have our bad days, and at least he gives super clear signals on when it’s time to turn and walk away. My first college roommate was kind of like that, except instead of Hulking out, she’d dig into her stash of Easter chocolate. If it was November and she had a Cadbury egg in hand, you _got the fuck out of there_.”

Stark blinks at her. Why does that keep happening?

“It was frozen,” Darcy adds, because that’s probably what’s giving him pause. “It’s not like she kept a box under the bed or anything. That would just be gross.”

“Mold and ants,” Stark says, and when Darcy nods, he mirrors it. That’s strangely satisfying. She tilts her head to the side, and he does the same. Neat.

“But you wanted to talk about Bruce.” She smiles and braces her elbow on her desk to prop her head up on the palm of her hand.

Stark blinks again, seems to shake a little without actually moving at all, and one of his eyebrows is steadily climbing. “The guy’s been through a lot of shit, but he seems to have a soft spot for you,” he says slowly. Darcy tries, and probably fails, to not beam too brightly. “So I want to make certain you’re not going to screw him over.”

Darcy laughs. She can’t help it; Tony Stark acting like someone’s protective father is the most hilarious thing she’s seen all year, and she was there when Fury tripped over his coat when Natasha walked by in a cocktail dress.

“That’s so cute,” she exclaims. “You want to know what my intentions are!”

Stark glares. Or it might be a pout. Maybe a combination. A glout? Plare? Whatever, she’ll think about that later.

“We have lunch,” she says now. There’s a giggle that’s still threatening to bubble up in her throat, but she mostly manages to tamp it down. “I knew a woman once who thought sushi was scandalous, but I promise I haven’t been dipping my California rolls in his wasabi.” Well, not yet, anyway.

Stark’s mouth twitches, probably wants to quirk into a smile, but he forces a serious expression. “Look,” he says. “You’re young, you’re hot--“ Another pointed look at her chest. “--and you could probably pass for normal if you didn’t open your mouth. Be honest with me here. I love the guy, but what’s a girl like you doing with someone like Bruce?”

Darcy frowns and drops her gaze to the finance report she’s been idly curling the corner of for the past several minutes. “He’s not boring,” she finally says. And then, because it’s the truth, “And he has really, really great hair. And have you seen his smile?” Darcy looks up again, warming to her subject, and grips the edge of her desk. “Does that smile not melt you like a marshmallow?” She points at him, because she’s always suspected that Matt Bomer is actually infallible, and she’s definitely feeling more than a little dramatic when it comes to Bruce’s smile. “If you say it doesn’t, then you’re lying.”

“It’s a pretty great smile,” Stark concedes graciously.

“Swoon worthy,” Darcy says, and Stark nods thoughtfully. He seems distracted, so she asks, “Can I have your sunglasses?”

“What?” Stark frowns down at her. “No.”

She pouts.

Stark sighs and hands them over.

“So that’s it,” he asks, because apparently even Tony Stark is better at staying on topic than she is, and isn’t that just a little sad. “That’s why you’re hanging out with him?”

Darcy shrugs and pulls out a compact to admire her new sunglasses. Yeah, she can _totally_ pull these off. She snaps the mirror closed and drops it back in her top drawer. “Well, those are the official reasons, yeah.”

“And the unofficial?” There’s a look on Stark’s face that reminds Darcy all of the sudden that he’s kind of a really dangerous dude. “Because if you do anything to break his heart…”

Darcy snorts. She’s never been all that good at appropriate responses to danger. Exhibit A: Thor and her taser. “If I ever break his heart, you can bet I’ll be AWOL and halfway across the world before he can even start smashing. Do I look dumb enough to stay where any of you could find me after I’ve pissed you off?”

Stark starts to open his mouth again and Darcy raises a hand to stop him.

“Look, he’s this really great guy who doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends, and since I like him, I can take advantage of that by bogarting a lot of his free time. There’s no giant conspiracy here.” Darcy swallows, and forces herself to look Stark in the eye. Fuck genuineness. This shit is _hard._ “If he wants more than that from me, then I’m totally happy to go there, but right now he just seems really lonely and I like making him smile. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Stark says, and his eyes flicker toward her Captain America mug. Huh, Darcy thinks, because that makes a lot of things she’s seen and heard about Stark and the Cap slide together in a way that makes a whole lot more sense.

Darcy smirks, and this is getting far too serious for her taste, so she says, “If I was looking for some quick fling, I’d go after Clint.”

“Coulson would kill you if you tried,” Stark immediately says, but he looks a little less tense around his mouth, and Darcy grins at him.

“I bet he wouldn’t if I let him watch.”

Stark blanches and Darcy laughs and Coulson opens his door to tell them both to get the fuck out for the next hour at least, fucking hell, are they actually serious with this?

* * *

“I had a strange run in with Dr. Foster earlier,” Bruce says later that day while they’re eating Thai takeout on the ramshackle couch in his lab. It’s a hideous orange plaid, and Darcy generally tries not to think too much about why SHIELD would even have that, because fuck knows Bruce didn’t bring it with him.

“Oh?” Darcy tucks her bare toes under Bruce’s thigh, and he passes her a lab report he’s been scanning to place on top of the growing pile on the ground to her left.

“It didn’t really make sense,” Bruce says, and only he could manage to sound apologetic about someone else’s incoherence. Darcy wiggles her toes, and he puts a little more weight on them to pin them down.

“That’s not unusual.” She eats a bite of duck, then stretches to offer another to Bruce, who turns his head to accept the bite without looking away from his papers. “What did she say?”

“Something about the New York Public Library being a nice place for a reception and how she thinks she looks best in jewel tones.” His brow creases in confusion, and Darcy hooks a hand in his elbow to haul herself close enough so that she can easily smooth the lines away with the pad of her thumb.  Bruce looks at her, and his forehead stays smooth despite the slight downturn of his mouth. “There was also something about a ‘sacred bond’ and how what you two have is thicker than blood. Do you know what she meant?”

“It’s Jane,” Darcy says with a shoulder roll that gets a kink out of her neck and could be interpreted as a shrug. “She probably pulled a couple all nighters in a row and had one of her ‘moments’.”

Bruce doesn’t look entirely convinced, but all he says is, “If you say so.” and “Watch the dripping. Watch the dripping!” when Darcy tries to read over his shoulder and accidentally tilts the takeout container a little too much.

A few minutes later, once Bruce is engrossed in his reports again, Darcy pulls out her phone and texts Jane.

_It is SO not cool to talk to a girl’s not-boyfriend about wedding shit!!! Crossing a line there, Foster!_

And then a few minutes after that:

_But out of curiosity, what kind of waiting list would a place like that have?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and the general lack of response on my end! Between work and visiting family, things have been kind of hectic, and sometimes I go into hermit mode when I'm stressed. I'm working on getting caught up on everything I've missed. Thank you for your patience! <3


	5. Chapter 5

The lab is quiet, or at least as quiet as it ever gets. There’s the ever present hum and click of computers working in the background, but the compound is mostly deserted and a hushed stillness has settled over the usual chaos that SHIELD seems to thrive on during the day.

Darcy kicks off her heels and curls her feet up underneath her. It should be easy enough to hide her yawn behind her mug, which is about the size of a child’s head, but it doesn’t work, and Bruce looks up from his computer to frown at her.

“I know this isn’t exactly interesting for you,” he says, slipping off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “A lot of this is even boring to me. I’m only staying because it has to be monitored. You don’t have to keep me company.”

He looks tired, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal tanned forearms and a way-past-five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw line. He looks tired, but he looks _good_ , and Darcy’s fingers itch to comb Bruce’s hair back into some kind of order. Instead, she cups them around her mug to curtail the urge. 

“It’s not so bad,” she says. Her eyes dip closed as she inhales the steam from her coffee. “When I was Jane’s assistant, my entire job description basically boiled down to ‘keep her company and sane’ if it was examined with any kind of scrutiny. Trust me, this is my happy nostalgia time, where I can sit back and remember what my life was like back when my biggest concern was whether the corner store would remember to order Jane’s favorite flavor of poptarts.”

There’s a hum from Bruce, and when she opens her eyes, he’s watching her with a small, thoughtful smile. Darcy lets herself have a moment and brushes a wayward curl off of his forehead under the pretense of giving it a tug, then leans over to rip a piece off a churro on the plate next to his elbow. “What’s that look for?”

Bruce shakes his head, says, “You’re an enigma, Darcy Lewis.”

“Nah.” Darcy grins and says, “I’m an Aquarius, actually.” She dunks the churro in her coffee and swirls it around a little bit.

That gets a laugh out of Bruce, who pauses to check something when his computer bleats at him before turning back toward her. He slips her mug out of her hands so deftly that she barely even notices him doing it until he’s pouring half her coffee into his empty cup. “Darcy,” he says in that tone that used to mean she was about to get detention--and honestly, she has _no idea_ how that cherry jello got into the school’s water pipes--but he looks more amused than annoyed, so she’s still in the clear.

She closes her eyes again when she pops the churro into her mouth and licks a few drops of coffee and sugar from her fingertips. Mmm, say what you will about Tony Stark, but the man can modify the hell out of a coffee maker. Bruce makes a quiet choked noise, and when she opens her eyes this time, he's staring intently at their drinks.

“I know, I know,” she says and makes grabby hands at her mug. Bruce considers both the mugs, pours a little bit of coffee back into hers to even them out, and hands it back. “Everyone always seems to think I should be a fire sign, but it’s water all the way. Anyone who’s ever seen me dance knows how very fluid I can be.”

And Bruce must be tired, because he just grins down at his notes and says, “I can imagine,” into his coffee cup.

“Dr. Banner,” Darcy exclaims, absolutely delighted. “That was practically scandalous. Do you think about dancing often? Do you break out in a highly choreographed routine in abandoned factories? Do you stir up rebellion in small towns so that all the local youth will rally behind their right to dance?” She cradles her chin in her palm and grins. “Come on, Bruce, tell me the truth. Do you like to put on your boogie shoes and get down with your bad self?”

Bruce’s laugh isn’t audible, but it’s almost better than if it was. His entire body’s shaking, the slightest beading of dampness at the corner of his tightly closed eyes, and Darcy unfolds her legs so that she can poke his knee with her big toe.

“Come on, spill. No one will know but me and the test tubes.”

Bruce sucks in a shaky breath, then another, steadier one. Heat creeps up the back of Darcy’s neck when he turns his grin on her. She swallows hard and scrapes her hair back into a sloppy ponytail--she's sitting right under the air conditioning vent and is suddenly really grateful for the draft that stirs the short hairs at the edge of her hairline against her neck--but slides her foot up to rest on his leg. Bruce doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps smiling and circles her ankle with his thumb and index finger.

“Well,” he hedges, “It’s not like I’m Kevin Bacon or anything.” And he has to pause there to wait until Darcy’s done crowing with laughter.

She waves her hands and shakes her head at him when he mock glares. “No, no, I’m just so happy that you got that. I spent most of my day with Steve. He’s a great guy and all, especially when it comes to standing around and being eye candy--" Darcy winks at Bruce and enjoys the little thrill that zips up her spine when his fingers tighten around her ankle. “--but he never gets any of my best material. It’s like trying to talk to someone who doesn’t even speak the same language. But then there’s you, and you not only get my jokes, you think they’re funny most of the time, and I _love_ that.”

It’s hard to tell if the color in Bruce’s cheeks is a blush or from the glow of his computer screen, but his fingers stroke over her insole, which is a total win in her book. She bends her knee, pulling her rolling chair closer to his, and hooks her other leg around his calf.

“So,” she says with a small, teasing smile. “You were telling me all about your dancing?”

“Oh, I’ve picked up a thing or two,” he says. One side of his mouth hooks upward, and Darcy bounces a little bit, because there _has_ to be a story there. She has a sixth sense about these things.

“Tell me,” she whines. When he doesn’t answer right away, she snags his coffee. “I have a hostage! You should tell me if you want it returned safely.” She waggles her eyebrows and Bruce gives an exaggerated sigh that can’t cover the laugh in his eyes.

“Well, if you’re going to get violent about it, I guess I’ll have to tell you.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more until his curls are sticking up in every direction like he got caught in a wind storm, and there’s the barest trace of trepidation in his expression before he continues. “I lived in Egypt for a while, and there was a woman in one of the poorer villages there whose husband was sick. She couldn’t pay me for his treatment, so she taught me to dance.” He pauses, then exhales with a sigh that’s half laugh, half self-depreciating huff. “She taught me how to belly dance.”

“ _No_.” Darcy nearly falls out of her chair, she leans forward to grab his arm so quickly. “Are you serious? You can’t be serious. _Please_ tell me you’re serious?”

Bruce laughs and twists his arm so that her hand slides down to meet his. “I’m serious so long as you never tell the team.”

“Cross my heart,” Darcy says and sketches an X over her chest. “But you have to show me.”

Bruce glances up at the discreet bump in the far corner that could be just a slight bulge in the ceiling, but is actually a camera. He looks back at Darcy, expression torn for a moment, then shrugs. It’s not a smooth movement, too hesitant to be anything but jumpy, but the nod that follows it is firm enough. “Okay, but not here.”

“Deal,” Darcy says. She sticks out her free hand for Bruce to shake, and can’t stop herself from leaning forward to peck his nose when he does.

Bruce blinks and flushes, but he seems to be getting better about rolling with things like that. Darcy doesn't know if that disappoints her or not. "So what about you?"

"What about me," Darcy asks, sinking back into her chair. She keeps her fingers tangled with Bruce's, though, their arms stretched out between them.

"You know my deepest, darkest secret now." Bruce taps at his computer when it beeps, but doesn't quite take his eyes off her. "Doesn't that entitle me to one of yours?"

"I'm kind of an open book," Darcy says, which isn't exactly true, but isn't exactly a _lie_ either. Bruce just arches an eyebrow at her, and Darcy frowns as she tries to think of something, anything, she can tell him. That thing in Florida with half a fraternity is out. The fiasco with a Ronald McDonald statue and the fountain at the public park is a possibility, but she probably shouldn't say anything about that in a government facility when she's still technically protesting the charges.

"There was this boy when I was growing up," she finally says. Bruce makes an encouraging noise, and Darcy looks at their hands, because that's easier than meeting his eyes. "He lived down the road from me. I, I didn't have all that many friends when I was a kid. Shocking, right? But it was okay, because I had this dog." Her gaze stutters up toward Bruce's without actually meeting it, and she doesn't know exactly what expression is on her face, but it doesn't feel right and it probably doesn't look all that good either if the way Bruce's grip tightens is anything to go by.

"He was just. He was a great dog. He was _my_ dog, even though I wasn't allowed to even bring him in the yard, you know?" Darcy drums her fingers against Bruce's palm and eats another bite of churro to stall. She hasn't let herself think about this in forever, and the pain of it isn't as sharp as it used to be, but it still feels like a knife stuck between her ribs, hard and unyielding and unable to close up. "But then this boy, Tommy, moves in down the road, and he starts causing all this trouble with _my dog_."

She has to pause again. Her nose has to be bright red right now, her face more than a little blotchy, and she can feel the first humiliating pinpricks of tears behind her eyes. She swallows them down hard and glosses over the rest. "Long story short, McScruff bit the bastard, which he totally deserved, and Tommy's parents made animal control put him down." Darcy exhales, and it's shaky, but it's not a sob.

When she looks up at Bruce, he looks stricken. It's kind of ridiculous what a sweet guy he is, because she's read his file and knows all the shit that's happened to him in his life, but he still manages to look like _that_ just because she's told him a story about her old dog. She forces another smile, this one more successful than the last, and when Bruce hesitantly touches her cheek, she tilts into it.

"It's okay," she says when he tries to say something, then shakes her head, because that's not quite right. "Well, no, it's not okay, but it's not like I let him get away with it. It took me years, but I got him pretty good."

"Tell me?"

She smirks; it almost feels natural again. "So my dad's a doctor, right?" There's no reason for Bruce to know that, but he nods anyway. "I spent a lot of time at the hospital when I was in high school--candy striping and all that shit--and when I was a sophomore and he was a junior, I sent a letter to his house about his syphilis results while he was out of town for a class trip. His parents read it. I'd filed all the right paperwork and everything. They got billed, even." Darcy's smirk widens a fraction. She can still remember sitting out on the back porch and listening to that fight. Ah, memories. "They sent him off to work on his uncle's farm for the rest of high school."

"Not exactly ethical," Bruce points out.

"Yeah, I didn't exactly care." Darcy finally looks at him again, and there's something so open and fond in his expression that she gives in to the urge to tip forward until her forehead's on his shoulder. He smoothes his hand over her hair, and for several long moments they stay that way.

Then one of the machines that's been quietly whirling all night gives a loud, pained shriek.

Bruce jumps away to take care of it with an apologetic backwards glance, and Darcy flashes him a smile that only barely hurts. It doesn't take too long to get whatever the problem is under control, but they spend most of the rest of the night in comfortable, fond silence that reminds Darcy more than a little of long summer nights spent out in the woods with a warm, fuzzy weight stretched out against her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the idea of Bruce belly dancing goes to ikira on LJ.


	6. Chapter 6

“How often do you think he goes commando under those pants Stark designed for him,” Darcy wonders out loud. She manages to duck fast enough to dodge the punch Natasha throws at her face, but she goes down hard when Natasha’s leg slices out and cuts her legs out from underneath her.

(Darcy knows that Natasha slows down and telegraphs her moves when she’s training her, because Natasha _told_ her she does, but she still moves so quickly that Darcy can’t help but wonder if she’s secretly related to the Flash. Somehow she doesn’t think even the whole ‘he’s a fictional comic book character’ thing would put it outside of the realm of possibility when it comes to Natasha.)

Natasha stands over Darcy with an eyebrow cocked and her hands on her hips, every inch of her radiating how completely unimpressed she is, and says, “I think you need to focus on the task at hand. Someone who’s really out to do you harm won’t go as easy on you as I am.”

“Oh please,” Darcy says. She gingerly rubs at a spot on her thigh that she knows is going to be colored dark with a bruise by the time she hits the showers. “Someone who seriously wants to hurt me is still going to be a cakewalk compared to you.”

Her actual expression doesn’t visibly change at all, but something subtly shifts and Natasha looks more self satisfied than disapproving now. Darcy feels pleased with herself for as long as it takes her to get up on her feet, and then Natasha darts forward again, quick as a snake. She does something that Darcy can’t even track, but that has her flying through the air and landing flat on her back with a loud ‘Oof!’

When she finally remembers how to breathe again and blinks her eyes open, Natasha’s smirking down at her. “All I can tell you is that I’ve never seen him washing underwear any of the times I’ve seen him doing his laundry,” she offers along with a hand up.

“You’re good people,” Darcy says solemnly and takes her hand.

“That’s something I don’t hear every day.” Natasha’s smirk grows into a toothy grin as she slides easily into a fighting pose. “Now do it again and try not sucking so much this time.”

* * *

Darcy’s enjoying a quiet Saturday morning of shopping for goat cheese, blood oranges, and Pop Rocks when Dr. Doom attacks Manhattan.

“Oh you have got to be _kidding me_ ,” Darcy says as the crowd around her starts screaming and running for cover. She presses the panic button built into her watch and slings the strap of her bag across her chest so she has less of a chance of losing it. “Are those robot _squirrels_?”

They are. It almost makes her feel a little bad about bashing one in the head with her oranges--and there goes a splurge that she’s going to feel sad about for a while--and jumps over a bristly, spiky tail. There’s an alley with a fire escape climbing up the side of it about a dozen feet away from her, and Darcy starts fighting her way through the crowd and the robots to try and reach it. Nothing’s flying and Doom always seems to like focusing on a crowd, so up and out of the way should be a pretty good bet right now. Or at least it would be if she could get there, which is proving to be a hell of a lot harder than it should be. She’s moving against the crush that’s trying to run away, and she ends up getting an elbow in the face from somebody’s grandma and nearly tripped by a priest before she cuts her way to the side so that she can hug the face of the building and inch forward that way.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere when the Avengers show up, an almost audible sigh of relief that goes up even as people take shelter wherever they can. At least four people in Darcy’s line of sight pull out their phones to take pictures--And doesn’t that just sum up the average New York City tourist, right there?--but she keeps her head down and her eyes forward. Fun as it can sometimes be to watch the team kicking ass on the television in the break room, especially if Gary the Galaga guy is there to turn it into a drinking game with her--take one shot if something explodes, two if the camera zooms in on someone’s ass, three if the villain of the week is using magic, etc.--it's not nearly as much fun to actually be caught up in it.

She’s maybe doing a little too good of a job keeping her head down though, because the next time she looks up, there’s a robo-squirrel right in front of her. Darcy swallows down a scream and throws her Pop Rocks in its face. It doesn’t seem terribly impressed, and maybe Darcy should have chosen a different day to wear her Mr. Peanut shirt, because it does seem more than a little too taken with her.

You know what? Screw it. If there’s ever a time to scream, it’s when a giant robot squirrel is chittering at you like you’re a particularly tasty treat.

Darcy screams. The squirrel chirps loudly, a strangely alarmed metallic sound, and swings its tail around. She jumps backward enough to get away from the full brunt of it, but a couple of spikes still snag across her stomach, tearing her shirt and the soft skin beneath her belly button.

There’s a low, ominous rumbling from off to the side, and it’s not until a huge, green hand closes around the squirrel’s head and rips it clean off its body that she realizes it’s the Hulk growling. He rounds on her, lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl, and Darcy presses her palm to the jagged scrapes on her stomach to help stem the bleeding and keep from fainting. It’s a legitimate concern; she once passed out from a paper cut.

“If you’re going to smash me, this would actually be a really good time,” Darcy says, her voice unsteady even to her own ears. “Because this hurts like a total bitch and little unconsciousness sounds like a nice vacation.”

He doesn’t smash her, though. Instead, he drops to his knees and ever so carefully covers her hand with one of his. Hulk looks up at her, his thick brows drawn together, and asks, “Hurt?”

It shouldn’t be possible for someone who’s that big, that fierce, to sound so completely lost and pained. Darcy tries to wipe a smudge of dark soot from his cheek, which only succeeds in smearing it more.

“Yes, it hurts,” Darcy says. It’s honestly not as serious as it could be, but Darcy’s never been all that good when it comes to dealing with her own blood, and fuck but her gut burns like _fire_. “I’m going to be okay, though,” she adds quickly when the Hulk gives her a look like he’s going to cry. There are so many reasons why that needs to never happen, and it’s not just because she doesn’t want to have to explain it to Fury. “A few stitches and I’ll be fine. I promise.”

The Hulk’s free hand darts out, grabs a squirrel that’s ventured just that much too close by the neck, and slams it into the ground until it twitches, spurts some impressive sparks, and stops moving. His eyes don’t leave Darcy’s.

“You need to let me go so that I can get out of here,” Darcy says gently. She tries to pull back, but her knees nearly buckle underneath her, and Hulk puts a hand to her back to brace her up. His expression hardens into something like resolve, and he scoops her carefully into his arms. “Not what I meant,” Darcy yelps and wraps her arms around his neck. “Not what I meant at all!”

Stark chooses that moment to buzz by. He does a visible double take when he sees them, then drops down just long enough to clap Hulk on the shoulder and say, “Good idea, big guy. Get her somewhere safe, or Bruce’ll end up taking Valium until you’re nothing but a distant memory,” before flying off to keep a squirrel from burying Steve’s shield.

After that, there’s no choice but to cling to Hulk as tightly as she can while he lopes easily through the crowd. The sounds of explosions and screams seem to die out impossibly quickly, and when Darcy looks up from where she had her face pressed against the Hulk’s shoulder, they’re in the park.

“Okay,” Darcy says when Hulk kneels and lowers her carefully to sit on the ground in front of him. “This is really not how I saw my day going, but I do like the park. So, you know, yay for silver linings?”

The Hulk makes a soft, concerned noise, and he grazes his fingertips over the blood staining her front. When Darcy lifts up her shirt to get a better look at the damage, he makes a sound that’s not completely unlike a whimper. Upon closer inspection, the cuts are ragged and ugly, but they’re shallow and thin, and the bleeding has all but stopped already. Darcy lets her shirt drop and puts a bloody hand on Hulk’s forearm. She has a bizarre moment where she can’t help but think that they look like Christmas, but she shakes her head to get rid of the thought and gives his arm what she hopes is a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” she says with a shaky smile. “I’ve had worse.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, and Darcy takes a second to mourn what has to be the official death of her ability to bullshit convincingly.

“Darcy,” he says in that thick, gravelly voice, and Darcy must reach the end of her adrenalin rush, because she’s suddenly trembling and tired all the way to her bones.

“That’s me,” she says, head bowed and eyes closed. The Hulk just grumbles wordlessly again, which is sort of comforting in a strange way, and leans forward until his cheek is pillowed against her thigh, his big arms forming a loose, protective circle that doesn’t quite touch her around her folded legs.

“Okay.” Darcy combs her fingers back through his hair, rakes them through the coarse strands over and over again until the worst of the debris he must have picked up from smashing robots has fallen out to speckle his bare shoulders with black and silver, then slides her palm down to the side of his neck. She finds the fast, steady jump of his pulse beneath his jaw and lets her fingertips rest over it. “Okay, I can work with this,” she says, and counts the Hulk’s gradually slowing heartbeat until one of SHIELD’s trademark black vans pulls up.

* * *

A grainy picture of the two of them that someone obviously snapped with their cell phone ends up on the front page of The Daily Bugle the next morning.

The reporter who writes the article calls her ‘the Hulk whisperer’ and misspells her name ‘Darci Louis’.

Director Fury calls her a ‘motherfucking idiot’ and gives her a raise.

Her mother calls her a terrible example for her impressionable young nephews and overnights a care package with no less than six dozen cookies in it.

Tony Stark calls her while she’s taking a well deserved bubble bath in her tiny tub and leaves a message saying, “If you want to move into Stark Tower, just say the word and I’ll send some movers over. You’d be great for keeping down the collateral damage around here,” in her voice mail, because Stark can’t do anything nice without trying to play it off as a joke.

Darcy calls him back and says, “If they get here any earlier than nine tomorrow morning, I will make your life _very unpleasant_ , Tony,” because she figures using first names is allowed once someone’s basically asked you to move in with them. “I have Coulson, Natasha, _and_ Pepper on speed dial.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to try my hardest to be funnier in the next update. =/


	7. Chapter 7

Darcy’s buzzer goes off the next morning exactly as her watch ticks over from 8:59 to 9:00 while she’s in the middle of making the sauce for her bananas foster French toast.

“Cheeky asshole,” she mumbles fondly as she gives the mixture a quick final stir with her whisk, then covers the pan and moves it to a back burner. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she says to her empty apartment when the buzzer sounds again, and pads over to her door to let the movers in. Darcy opens her door, fully prepared to start giving orders, and says, “Oh, fuck.”

Bruce smiles uncertainly at her and jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the movers behind him. “Tony thought you might want some help getting everything organized, but if you’d rather I left-“

“ _No_ ,” Darcy cuts in quickly. She’s already tugging her hair out of its messy topknot and pulling it back into a slightly more respectable ponytail. There’s nothing she can do about Bruce seeing her in her favorite old ratty Batman pajamas. Oh well, at least Batman’s cool, she thinks as she steps back to let everyone in. “No, you’re great. This is great. Have you had breakfast?”

When Bruce doesn’t answer, Darcy looks away from the mover who’s heading back toward her postage stamp sized bedroom--and _boy_ does she ever hope Tony employs discreet movers, because the whole world does not need to know exactly what she keeps under her bed--and follows Bruce’s gaze down to where it’s riveted on her stomach. The elastic in her sleep pants is already saggy and loose with age, barely clinging to her hips even on her fat days, and with her arms up, her shirt is hiked up enough to reveal her battle wounds. They’re not that bad, honestly. The worst one stretches from just to the left of her navel down to about an inch below her right hipbone, but the next longest is only about the length of her hand from wrist to fingertip and one is as short as her thumb. All of them are scabbed over already, the skin around them pinkened, but not red or puffy. All in all, she’s had worse injuries from an over enthusiastic crowd at a Macy’s sale.

Darcy braces the pad of her index finger against the underside of Bruce’s chin and pushes up until he’s looking at her face, and slowly, deliberately pulls the hem of her shirt back down. “Breakfast,” she says. Bruce just blinks at her, and Darcy prompts, “Have you had any?”

“I had tea?”

Darcy glares and nudges him toward the nook she calls a kitchen. “Yeah, see, that is not a breakfast. There are requirements that have to be met before you can classify something as breakfast, and tea just doesn’t meet the cut. Sit.”

She puts her hands on Bruce’s shoulders and pushes him down into a chair at the table she has wedged in next to her fridge. “What’s with you and categorizing things?”

“I’m a very organized person,” Darcy says, pointing her whisk at him. “I’ve yet to meet a filing system I couldn’t color code.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bruce says, and Darcy remembers a fraction too late that his latest lab assistant quit earlier in the week. Not that she’d object to working with him or anything, but she’s only just gotten Coulson broken in, and it would be a shame to waste all that training now that the man finally knows her post-it note system. “And how would you categorize breakfast?”

“First qualification.” Darcy stretches to get a mixing bowl from the shelf over the sink and winces when her cuts pull. Bruce makes a small concerned noise, but Darcy ignores him and keeps talking. “Can you chew it? No? Then it’s not a proper breakfast.”

She makes the mistake of passing a little too close to Bruce when she goes to grab some eggs, and Bruce catches hold of her wrist.

“Darcy,” he says quietly, and pulls her in closer. The space is tight and the only way she can keep from losing her balance is by planting her knee on the chair between Bruce’s slightly spread thighs. It’s not like Darcy’s never thought about straddling his lap before, but this is so not how she pictured it happening. He lets go of her wrist and settles his hands on her hips, his palms twin patches of heat even through the cotton of her pants. His eyes have dropped to her stomach again, but when Darcy makes a questioning sound, he looks back up to meet her eyes and asks, “May I,” as his fingers tentatively start to inch up the bottom of her shirt.

“Yeah, go for it,” Darcy says, her throat suddenly dry.

Bruce’s hands skate upward, pushing her shirt up to the beginning curve of her ribs, and he pins the fabric with one hand while he very carefully traces over the cuts with the other. “I know medical cleared you, but I just need to be certain,” he says, giving her an explanation she never asked for. Darcy threads her fingers into his curls and swallows the whimper that wants to escape when a calloused finger skims along the very top of her waistband. She can see the hint of a shudder in his shoulders when he inhales, feel it against her skin when he breathes back out. “I remember it being worse.”

“Not exactly my finest moment,” Darcy says ruefully, and when she tries to pull away, Bruce lets her go. She manages to get her eggs this time uninterrupted. “I was kind of freaking out, and I feel so stupid now, because it’s totally not a big deal.”

“No,” Bruce says, and his voice is so solidly convicted that Darcy fumbles her egg and drops several large pieces of shell into the beginnings of her custard. He waits until she’s looking at him, then says, “It’s not stupid, Darcy. You’re not a soldier, you’re not an agent, you’re a _civilian_.”

“Well, yes, but I-“

“You nothing,” says Bruce. “You’re a civilian who was caught up in something she never should have had to even see. That you got hurt,” and Bruce pauses there, his voice suddenly rough and choked, and Darcy’s immediately wiping the egg off her fingers so that she can cross the distance between them to take his face in her hands and press their foreheads together.

“I’m okay. I promise I’m okay,” she says, which isn’t completely true. She’s still shaken, and she had a nightmare that woke her up in a cold sweat last night, but she also has a counseling visit scheduled with a SHIELD shrink and a bar visit scheduled with Jane; she’s as okay as she can be under the circumstances.

“They never should have touched you,” Bruce says, his fingers curling lightly around her waist. She can feel the abbreviated movement when he starts to shake his head, then almost immediately stops himself. “And I never should have moved you. I could have hurt you even worse.”

“You didn’t though,” Darcy points out. She soothingly scratching her nails in little circles through the short hairs at his nape. “You took me somewhere safe, somewhere that you knew I love and that you knew I’d _feel_ safe. Everything worked out fine.”

Bruce’s laugh is a horrible, bitter thing, and Darcy closes her eyes because she can’t close her ears. “Luck is rarely on my side. I shouldn’t have chanced it.”

“And that’s officially enough of that,” Darcy says around the lump in her throat. She kisses his cheek, a firm touch that’s as much about reassurance as it is affection, and turns back toward her neglected breakfast. “There’s no point dwelling on the past, what’s done is done, insert other random platitudes here. We’re going to have breakfast, get all my shit moved, and then spend the evening watching the Hoarders marathon on TLC.” She smiles over her shoulder at Bruce, pleased when his answering smile is only a little brittle around the edges, and says, “Coulson’s responsible for supplying the drinks, but you can help me make the popcorn.”

Bruce shakes his head slowly and says, “My life took a very strange turn somewhere when I wasn’t looking.”

Darcy just throws a slice of banana at his head and whisks her cream and milk into her eggs.


	8. Chapter 8

“He’s just so genuinely nice, you know?” Darcy pinches a corner off of Natasha’s cinnamon scone and pops it in her mouth.

“So you’ve said.” Natasha edges her scone a few more inches away from Darcy’s hand, but there’s no knife on the table, so she’s not serious. Darcy pinches off another bite; if she baked it, she’s entitled to pick at it, assassin or not.

“He helped me over a puddle the other day. A puddle! It was all of a foot wide. I could have jumped that in four inch heels, but he gave me his hand and _helped me over it_.” Darcy flails her hands in the air, nearly overturning Natasha’s glass of milk. It’s only a quick grab that saves it, and at Natasha’s glare, Darcy passes her the last of the scones. Nothing says _oops, my bad_ quite like a scone. “Who even does that? Who, I ask you?”

“Apparently Bruce does,” Natasha says. She delicately bites into her scone. The crumbled remains of Darcy’s breakfast are all over her shirt and place mat, but there isn’t even a hint of a crumb on Natasha. The woman repels crumbs, and that’s just not natural. Darcy mentally takes notes. “I’d say it’s a generational thing, but, well,” she pauses, and they both glance in the direction of the living room, where Tony’s probably either still passed out with his head in a blushing Steve’s lap or trying to figure out how to make the Coyote’s purchases from Acme actually work the way they’re supposed to.

“Enough said,” Darcy says. She reaches out again, but this time she sees a bright flash of silver, there and gone again in the blink of an eye, and she redirects mid movement to grab an apple from the bowl on the table. “Just, can you answer me this?”

She ducks her head to look at Natasha over the top edge of her glasses and widens her eyes beseechingly. Natasha sighs, cuts the apple and scone in half with a fluid flip of her wrist, and divides the halves between their plates. “Probably. You do have an exceptional clearance level for a glorified paper sorter.”

Darcy glares, because _hey_ , uncalled for, but doesn’t refute it, because she has delicious sconey goodness and, well, it’s kind of true. “How is he not constantly surrounded by people pinching his cheeks and sproinging his curls?”

Natasha blinks. Darcy’s pretty certain that’s the closest anyone’s ever seen her get to looking surprised. She mentally buffs her nails and preens, physically takes a celebratory bite of Natasha’s half of their scone.  

“I think,” Natasha says slowly, like she thinks the answer should be obvious, “that most people don’t have your particular, spectacular lack of a survival instinct and are somewhat put off by the entire ‘Hulk’ thing.”

“But why?” And Darcy’s not stupid, even if she does have a tendency to surround herself with people who make her feel that way. She knows how someone having the potential to turn into a giant, angry green machine could be intimidating, scary even, but this is _Bruce_ they’re talking about. He chews on pens until the ink bleeds out to stain the corners of his mouth and always has to have the first sip from his drink, though he’ll share after that, and has apparently never grown out of the habit of falling asleep with his glasses on. It’s like being afraid of a labradoodle.

“Even a labradoodle can get rabies,” Natasha points out.

“Rabies aren’t controllable,” Darcy counters. She kicks Natasha’s ankle, because she’s always believed that limits exist to be pushed, and Natasha seems more amused than anything by it. “The Other Guy is. You know the saying. Don’t poke a sleeping bear, and the bear won’t turn green and smash your head into the wall.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow.

“Okay, so maybe that’s not it _exactly,_ but you get the idea.”

“Look, “ Natasha says, and touches her fingers to the back of Darcy’s wrist to keep her hand from waving around anymore. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, exactly, but there’s good reason for people to be cautious of Bruce. The Other Guy isn’t as fond of most of us as he is of you.” She slants a pointed look Darcy’s way, and Darcy feels her cheeks heat with pleasure that she can’t quite shake even as she frowns.

“He shouldn’t be alone,” Darcy says with all the conviction that builds up during a childhood spent more with fantasy books and imagined forest sprites than other children.

“But he isn’t,” Natasha says, her tone slightly puzzled in the way it is when she can’t figure out how no one else sees what she does. “He has us.”

* * *

Darcy’s curled up in a rickety chair in the break room discussing this season’s shoes with Gary--who is passionate about exactly two things in life: shoes and classic video games--when Bruce walks in with a small gaggle of other people in white lab coats. None of them look familiar, so Darcy guesses they’re the new consultants Coulson mentioned earlier that morning. While she watches, one bumps the back of his hand against Bruce’s bicep and says something that makes the entire group laugh, and Darcy settles back in her chair and smiles at how relaxed and happy Bruce looks in this moment. He’s talking easily, one hand sketching his ideas out as invisible designs in the air while the other reaches for the coffee pot.

It’s all very easy and nice, which are two things that SHIELD is apparently actively discouraging now, because while Bruce is busy topping off his cup, one of the younger junior agents sidles up to the group and murmurs something Darcy can’t hear to the scientists.

The change is instantaneous. There’s a collective stiffening of spines, an almost simultaneous shuffle backwards, and when Bruce turns back to them, he’s the center island in a little semi-circle of cleared space, whereas before he’d been completely integrated into the whole.

Bruce notices--how could he possibly not?--but he doesn’t even look startled, just resigned. He visibly sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly, and Darcy feels something in her chest crack open.

“Oh, that just tears it,” she spits out from between clenched teeth. Gary, who had been debating the various merits of mules versus pumps, pauses and tracks her gaze to where Bruce is practically radiating quiet, accepting misery.

“Oh,” he says, his smile slanting down unhappily. “Go,” he says, shooing her away even as she’s getting to her feet. “Go and do the valiant rescue thing.”

Darcy flaps a hand at him in thanks and puts her elbows to good use to get to Bruce’s side. “I need you,” she says, hooking her arm through his and all but dragging him along with her.

“I was giving them a tour,” Bruce says, and a small, nasty voice in Darcy’s head wants to tell him to stop being so fucking nice to people who don’t deserve it.

“They’ll manage,” she says instead. She doesn’t take him far, just around the corner, but the important part is that they’re away.

“Darcy,” Bruce says, and his eyes flicker to the bruised hollows beneath her eyes that her concealer just doesn’t quite cover up. She’s still been having nightmares that she’s been trying to keep quiet, though she thinks Steve and Natasha probably know, and Coulson definitely does if the way he keeps leaving deliciously brewed mochas on her desk is any indication. Bruce hadn’t managed to pick up on it, though, and she’d considered that a small blessing, but he’s concerned now, which isn’t what she wanted at all. “What’s wrong?”

There are so many possible answers to that, but she doesn’t list any of them. Instead, she slowly and very obviously reaches out to put her arms around Bruce’s neck, and carefully pulls him in for a tight hug. Bruce tenses in her arms. Sure, they’ve touched before, but never like this. Everything before was casual and just organically happened or done for a specific purpose, but this? This is asking and taking and intent, and she has a brief flicker of panic that makes her cling a little tighter before Bruce relaxes with a faint exhale and wraps one arm around her waist, his other hand tracing up the line of her spine to cup the back of her head.

“There’s nothing wrong with asking for a hug when you need one,” Darcy says against the soft spot behind his ear. Bruce doesn’t answer, but he clutches her even closer.

Yeah, Darcy thinks, she is definitely starting up that Hugs for Heroes program _ASAP_.

* * *

Darcy spends the rest of the day stuck at her desk, a pile of papers so tall that it looks like they might topple over is she even looks at them wrong stacked in front of her pinning her in place, and it isn’t until Coulson comes out of his office and says, “You’re still _here_? Good God, woman, go home!” that she realizes how late it’s gotten. She braces one hand against the base of her spine and straightens with a creak and a groan.

“Mmm,” she says. “Home to where my bed is.”

“Tell Bruce I need to see him in the morning,” Coulson says. He flicks the top of her ear and makes a beeline for the exit.

“Tell Clint that he needs to stop eating all my elderberry jam straight from the jar,” she calls after him with a smirk. Clint leans around the corner to flip her off, and Darcy laughs and sticks her tongue out at him.

She and Bruce have fallen into the habit of going home together in the evenings now that they’re both living in Stark Tower, and the fact that she hasn’t seen him since the break room incident means he’s most likely still down in his lab, completely unaware to how much time has passed. That’s an easy enough fix, she thinks, and she grabs the most urgent of her paperwork to finish filling out while she makes the trek to his lab.

Bruce’s lab is on the far side of the building, a full ten minutes walk even if she doesn’t take the stairs, and requires passing through HR. They don’t much care for Darcy in HR-- that one little incident was so not harassment, and Darcy _knows_ from harassment--but she just waves, smiles, and keeps on walking when the grumbling starts up. The door to Bruce’s lab is cracked open, which is unusual, but not alarming, and Darcy can feel a real smile replace her fake one as she pushes it even wider.

She immediately stumbles to a stop, nearly tripping over her own feet, which is a trick she thought she’d outgrown after she finished puberty. Her heartbeat is unnaturally loud in her ears, but it must not actually be any louder than usual.

At the very least, it’s not loud enough to distract Bruce or the tall, pretty brunette in a white lab coat who has her hand on his cheek and her mouth on his.


	9. Chapter 9

The kiss ends practically as soon as it starts, and Darcy almost can’t decide whether that’s better or worse than if it’d gone on longer, because at least then she would have had a chance at a clean getaway. As it stands, she only manages to get one foot back out into the hallway before Bruce stops her with a, “Darcy,” that’s too happy by half. Darcy plasters a smile that feels leaden and stiff on her face and turns back around.

“Hey,” she says and nods at the woman who has her hand on Bruce’s forearm, because she’s supposed to be a responsible adult type person and not the Hulk, so she can’t exactly get away with slamming the woman’s head against the corner of Bruce’s work table. She sticks her hands in her back pants pockets to get them safely out of the way in case her self control starts to slip. “I just came down to make certain you remember to eat, but it looks like you have plans.”

Bruce winces at that, though he still manages to look happy while doing it, and isn’t that just a kick in the fucking head. They eat together more often than not, and somewhere along the line it became habit to let the other know if one of them couldn’t make it. He glances at the woman, and Darcy knows it’s impossible, but she has a moment where she would swear on Fury’s eye patch that her heart stops, because something clicks into place in her brain and she suddenly recognizes her from a slightly fuzzy surveillance picture in Bruce’s file.

“I’m Darcy,” she says, holding her hand out to Betty fucking Ross, who even the supposedly impartial records refer to as the love of Bruce’s life often enough that it made Darcy roll her eyes when she was first doing research on the team.

Betty’s hand is cool and slim in Darcy’s, her smile warm and sweet as apple pie. She looks refined and collected in a classy blouse and skirt combo under the lab coat, even though she has to have been here for at least twelve hours already; the latest of the consultants showed up at seven this morning and it’s already half past seven now. Darcy has her hair pulled up with a rubber band and paper clips and there’s a pizza stain on the too tight jeans she’s only getting away with because she bribed Fury with a jelly donut to let her have casual Fridays. Darcy feels bruised and unbearably tired, and she forces her smile just that much wider.

“I’ve heard about you,” Betty says with a little glance at Bruce that Darcy can’t interpret. When she looks back, there’s a teasing tilt to her mouth that makes Darcy think she’d probably like her under different circumstances. “I’ve heard a _lot_ about you. I’m-“

“Betty Ross,” Darcy cuts in, because she doesn’t particularly care to hear how Betty would introduce herself in relation to Bruce. She finally lets go of Betty’s hand and shoves her hand back in her pocket so she won’t do something stupid and obvious like wipe her palm off on the leg of her jeans. Betty’s eyelashes flutter slightly--it figures that even her surprised blinking would look enchanting--and Darcy adds, “I’ve read Bruce’s file.”

Betty tilts her head to the side, examining Darcy with a look that could come straight out of Jane’s wheelhouse when she’s trying to figure out a particularly interesting puzzle, and Darcy tries to keep her expression as pleasantly blank as possible. Maybe it works or maybe it doesn’t, but Betty’s smiling again in a way that makes her look lovely and otherworldly like something out of a Tolkien story.

“I’m afraid there isn’t a file on you for me to read,” Betty says, and there’s that hint of a tease again. Darcy hates herself a little bit, because she would totally hit that under different circumstance.

“I actually have it on good authority that there is, but there’s no way you’d be able to read it.” Darcy tries for a grin. “I think HR is keeping it hostage in case they ever need to use it for evidence.”

“Evidence,” Betty asks with a laugh that absolutely does not make Darcy think clichéd thoughts about silver bells and clinking crystal chimes.

“I’m a troublemaker.” Darcy waggles her eyebrows, which only makes Betty laugh harder.

She reins it in after a few moments and says, “You know, I sense that about you,” in a serious tone that’s completely at odds with the way her lips are still twitching.

Darcy hazards a glance at Bruce, who still hasn’t said a single word other than her name, and there’s something dazed and conflicted in his eyes that makes her physically flinch.

“Case in point,” she says, and even though it feels like she can feel the cut of every jagged letter of every word that she forces out, her voice is still steady and pleasant. Glorified paper sorter, her ass; working for Coulson and SHIELD with all their crazy ass problems is totally teaching her valuable life skills. “I’m interrupting.”

“Oh, not at all,” Betty says right as Bruce chimes in with, “You’re never interrupting,” which would be flattering if it wasn’t also patently untrue. Betty’s looking at Bruce again, all expressive eyebrows and thoughtfully pursed lips.

“Dinner.” It’s a non sequitur, but Betty sounds firm when she says it, and she turns her head toward Darcy without moving her eyes from Bruce, which is such a Bruce thing to do that Darcy’s stomach flips. “You should join us for dinner.” Her eyes finally follow the path of her head, like they were set on a delay, and if her smile before was bright, now it’s practically blinding. “I’d love to get to know you better since you and Bruce are so close.”

Bruce starts to say something, and Darcy really, _really_ doesn’t want to hear his no doubt polite excuses for why she should butt out, so she shakes her head quickly and says, “It’ll have to be another time. Jane’s already claimed me for the evening.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Betty says, her smile faltering into something a little too insightful for Darcy’s taste.

“Yeah, well, what can you do,” she asks, and makes her goodbyes before either of them can try to answer her.

Once she’s safely out in the hallway, Darcy pulls her phone out of her pocket and texts Jane.

_Emergency girls’ night. EMERGENCY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Meet me at the bar in fifteen minutes._

* * *

“You’re my best friend in the entire world,” Darcy says when she gets to the bar and finds Jane in a booth with a full bottle of tequila and all the makings for a metric shit ton of shots.

“It’s what I do,” Jane says with a shrug. She puts her hand over the mouth of the bottle when Darcy makes a grab for it, and gives her a Look. “No, you know the deal. Tell me what’s going on while we’re still sober enough to remember in the morning. _Then_ you can have the alcohol.”

Darcy deflates and lets her head fall forward to connect with the slightly sticky table. “I love him like a Taylor Swift song,” she says sadly. “Nobody should ever have to love someone else like a Taylor Swift song. That’s just cruel.”

Her face is practically buried in her chest in this position, and her voice is definitely muffled, but not muffled enough, because Jane can understand her enough to ask, “One of the happy ones or one of the ones that makes you want to slit your wrists?”

The sound of foil ripping is enough to make Darcy look up. She pouts through Jane filling the first shot glass. “Like the one where she has to watch the guy of her dreams hook up with someone else, except without the cute, happy ending at prom.”

Jane nods slowly and pushes the glass at Darcy. “I think we’re probably going to need a second bottle.”

“Seriously, “ Darcy says. “I’m nominating you for sainthood first thing tomorrow.”

“After you get over your hangover,” Jane says kindly, because she’s considerate like that.

“Oh, of course,” Darcy says, and they high five.

**Four Shots**

“It’s like she walked straight out of a Cake song,” Darcy says as she slops some more tequila in her glass. “She’s just so smart and age appropriate and sharp, and I could _totally_ rock a short skirt and a long jacket, but not nearly as well as her.”

“Oh, come on, I'm sure you could,” Jane protests. “Remember when you pretended to be me for that one conference?”

“Yes!” Darcy slaps her hand against the table top. “I was a _baller_! All those scientists were convinced I was the real deal.”

They clink glasses and drink.

**Eight Shots**

“ _I had hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded that for me, it isn’t over_ ,” Darcy sings.

“ _Never mind, I’ll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you, too_ ,” Jane sings.

“ _Don’t forget me, I begged, I remember you said sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead_ ,” they sing together.

“ _Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead,_ ” a guy from the next booth over joins in.

**Eleven Shots**

“They’re probably soul mates or some shit,” Darcy explains earnestly to Shawn, who has dragon tattoo covering his entire right arm that’s the same shade of cobalt blue as his eye shadow.

“You can’t come between soul mates,” Shawn, the guy from the next booth over, says and smoothes her hair back out of her eyes. He’d gotten rid of her paperclips and rubber bands about fifteen minutes ago and has been trying to convince her to let him French braid her hair for the last ten. “Believe me, I’ve tried. That will straight up fuck the shit out of your karma.”

He takes the shot Jane offers him and doesn’t protest when Darcy takes a sip of his Sprite and fruit loop vodka mixer, because they’re friends now, and that’s how Darcy rolls with her friends.

“Where did you get your dress again,” Jane asks.

“This great little thrift store,” Shawn says, and he hands Darcy his drink so that he can get at the napkin underneath it. “Here, let me write down the name and address for you. They have some things that would be darling on the two of you.”

**Fourteen Shots**

“I’m going to be alone forever,” Darcy sobs against Jane’s shoulder. “I’m going to get old and saggy and even Tony won’t want to hit on me, and Bruce will be off making eyes at his girlfriend the genetically impossible elf!”

Jane says something completely incomprehensible except for the word ‘Thor’ and probably manages to get snot all over Darcy’s shirt, even though she’s dry crying.

Shawn might say something, but he’s not there for them to hear it, because he has work in the morning and had to leave early. He left the rest of his drink for Darcy and let her keep the sparkly feather clip that he’d used to fix her hair with, though, so they’re still cool. Darcy is pretty certain she might have agreed to make his next birthday cake for him.

**Sixteen Shots**

“We should get nachos,” Darcy says.

“We should _definitely_ get nachos,” Jane says.

**??? Shots**

“I brought you a present,” Jane says as she dumps Darcy on the couch next to Bruce. The team is in the middle of movie night, but Tony thoughtfully presses pause so that they won’t miss anything while they watch the show unfolding in the living room.

Darcy slowly falls over until she’s on her side with her head in Bruce’s lap. “Hi,” she says brightly.

“You’re…really drunk,” Bruce says. She thinks he’s probably frowning at her, but he also has at least two sets of ears too many, so Darcy doesn’t think his face is particularly trustworthy at the moment.

Darcy knots her fingers in the front of his shirt, says, “I don’t want to be an Adele song,” and promptly passes out with her nose pressed into the fold of his knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. _You guys_. How the HELL did I end up with over 300 kudos on this? What did I do to deserve you all being so nice to me? *sobs* I can't even, guys. Here, have some cookies.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/coffeebuddha/pic/000f27tc/)  
> 


	10. Chapter 10

Darcy wakes up the first time while the sky outside her window is dark, barely manages to stumble to what she really hopes is the toilet before she starts throwing up, rinses her mouth out with the tub faucet—it’s closer than the sink and this way she doesn’t have to get off her knees—crawls back to bed where she drains a glass of water she finds on her side table, and collapses diagonally across her bed.

The second time she wakes up, it’s still dark out. She squirms around for a few minutes to try and unwrap herself from her blanket burrito. One hand and most of a foot escape, but no amount of pathetic whining or wriggling will get the rest free, so she finally just curls up as best she can and goes back to sleep.

The third time she wakes up, it sticks. Light is pouring in through the windows with their cruelly open blinds. Tony’s fingerprints are over that, because it’s the kind of asshole move he would think is funny and Darcy never leaves her blinds open. She used to live across the street from a guy with a telescope; that’s the sort of lesson that sticks with you.

Her blankets are still twisted around her in some kind of weird fabric origami—if she squints, it looks a little like a crane—but this time she manages to roll free. There’s a glass of water on the side table, new enough that its sides are still slick with cold condensation when she touches it, with a selection of pain killers next to it, which is great since her brain is currently trying to break out of the inside of her skull and is apparently using a sledgehammer to do it. Darcy pops a couple of the pills. One gets stuck in her throat and the resulting flailing lands her on the floor.

“Ugh,” says Darcy. She finds the note next to the glass when she uses the table to pull herself more or less to her feet.

_Darcy,_

_I left you a few different kinds of pain killers since_ _Jane wasn’t certain what kind you would prefer_ _. Natasha took care of undressing you, so don’t be alarmed about that._

There’s no signature, but Bruce’s handwriting is unmistakable, and Darcy lightly touches the corner of the paper. Then she glances down. Huh. That explains where her pants went, at least. She should probably put on another pair before she goes to get breakfast.

A quick perusal of her dresser reveals another problem.

“JA’IS,” Darcy says, the word trailing off into a wide, cracking yawn. The silence that follows is definitely disapproving, and Darcy doesn’t know how JARVIS manages that, but it’s fucking impressive. She tries again. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, Miss Lewis?” JARVIS asks. Why Tony built an AI capable of radiating the kind of blatant disappointment that’s usually reserved for Darcy’s mom, she’ll never understand.

“Where are my pants?” Darcy stares sadly down at her empty drawer.

“Dr. Foster seemed to think it was imperative that she take them,” JARVIS says, and Darcy pouts. Jane on a mission is impossible to refuse or dissuade. Jane _drunk_ and on a mission enters into James Bond levels of trickery to get her way. The poor pants never had a chance.

That still leaves the problem of walking around half dressed. It’s not like Darcy’s never done that before, but she thinks that’s probably something to save for the second month of her living here. There’s an old sweater in her closet that’s stretched enough to hit her mid thigh, which is longer than some skirts she’s owned. She puts it on and pretends it’s a dress, because why the hell not. A quick glance in the mirror confirms that her make-up is smeared, but not so badly that she can’t mostly fix it with her fingers, and her hair is going above and beyond the call of duty by looking attractively bed tousled instead of like a rat’s nest. She can work with that.

The trip to the kitchen goes better than she expects it to. She only nearly falls over once, and now that she’s made nice at JARVIS, he thoughtfully dims the lights along her path. She pats the wall and mumbles something as complimentary as she can manage. The actual kitchen is a bit more of a problem.

Natasha hands her a mug of coffee and points her toward the table as soon as she walks in, because she’s made of awesome and win and the blood of her enemies, but Tony and Clint don’t even try to pretend like they aren’t staring at her legs and Steve looks for all the world like he despairs of them all. Bruce is already sitting at the table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He’s pretty much the only person she knows who still reads a physical paper—even Steve reads his on the tablet Tony would cry over if he didn’t use—and usually that would be adorable enough for her to comment on, but even looking at him hurts right now. Instead, she drops down on a stool at the island and tests the temperature of her coffee with the tip of her tongue.

There’s a strange, muffled choking sound from Bruce’s direction. Tony says something under his breath that makes Steve elbow him and Clint laugh. Darcy should probably care about that, but she’s too busy gulping down her coffee and trying to figure out the most effective way to inject it directly into her veins.

“Mmm,” she hums when she finally comes up for breath, and there’s a definite fumbling over at the table when she licks her lips. Tony says something else that she still doesn’t catch, and this time Steve bodily drags him out of the kitchen, his arms flailing out in a last ditch effort to get a hold of the coffeepot before it’s out of reach; Clint tags along behind them when Natasha glares.

“Eat,” Natasha says, and Darcy bites into the toast she holds in front of her face.

“So nice for being so scary,” Darcy says, spewing crumbs everywhere, and Natasha only rolls her eyes a little bit. That means she likes Darcy.

“Yes, well, just don’t tell anyone,” Natasha says and shoves the rest of the toast into Darcy’s open mouth.

“Mgrrhf,” Darcy says around it. She swallows what she can, puts what she doesn’t manage on a napkin, licks a crumb from her thumb, and crosses her legs.

There’s a wet clinking sound followed closely by a quiet, but venomous, ‘ _Fuck_ ’. Darcy finally looks over at Bruce, who’s mopping coffee off of his paper and blushing nearly as red as Tony’s suit, then up at Natasha. She raises an eyebrow and Natasha smirks.

Natasha leans in close, one hand on her shoulder, and murmurs, “Maybe go a little easier on him. You look like you just got fucked and there’s a phone number written on your cleavage.”

Darcy blinks and looks down at the deep vee of her sweater. Huh, so there is.

“We ran out of napkins at the bar,” Darcy explains. “Jane used up about fifty of them trying to figure out the equation for the perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and the bartender wouldn’t let us have any more.” She pouts. “Not even when we told him we wanted to make paper flowers to decorate the place with.”

“You’re a menace to society,” Natasha says fondly, and Darcy smiles up at her the best as she can. “And why is the phone number there?” She cuts her eyes toward Bruce when she says it, and when Darcy peeks out of the corner of her eye, he’s hunched over his paper again and so obviously trying to pretend he’s not listening in that there might as well be a flashing neon sign over him saying that he is.

Darcy pulls the collar of her sweater open a little wider, and there goes the rest of Bruce’s coffee, which is going to require a little more examination later. And yep, there’s a time and date underneath the number. “I set up a hair appointment,” she says, and flaps her hand around until Natasha passes her a pen and a pad of paper so that she can copy the information and a damp rag to wipe the ink off with. “Shawn thinks I’ll look good with bangs.”

“Shawn?” Judging by the look on Bruce’s face, he didn’t mean to say that. Darcy stares at him for a long moment.

“Guy we met at the bar last night.”

Darcy’s usually pretty happy being just the way she is, but right now she’d just about kill for a portion of Xavier’s mutation. She has no idea what’s going through Bruce’s brain, but she gets a feeling that things would be a lot simpler if she could poke around in there a little bit.

“Are you ready to go,” Betty asks from the doorway. This time it’s Darcy’s turn to drop her coffee. Thankfully, Natasha manages to catch it before any actually spills. Darcy closes her eyes, because she’s hung over and heart sick and doesn’t want to watch this, but Bruce doesn’t say anything. Instead, Betty clears her throat and says, “Darcy?”

Darcy’s eyes fly open. “Huh,” she asks eloquently.

“Lunch,” Betty says. She looks even better than she did yesterday, that bitch. Darcy wants to steal her shoes. “You called me last night and asked if I’d like to get lunch with you today.”

“I don’t even have your phone number,” Darcy says, because she’s pretty certain that’s an important thing. Betty shrugs.

“Yeah, I wondered about that, but then I thought about who you work for. If you wanted it, it wouldn’t be hard to get it.”

Which is true enough. Darcy looks at Natasha, who pulls an _eh, what’s the worst that could happen_ face, then at Betty, who just smiles.

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “I could eat.”


	11. Chapter 11

“This is your treat,” Darcy says as she follows Betty out onto the street. She squints in the mid morning brightness and shoves Tony’s sunglasses on her face, then glares at a particularly perky jogger until she feels slightly more human. “Just so you know.”

“Seems rather backwards since you’re the one who invited me out,” Betty says. “Isn’t it generally the other way around?”

Darcy turns her glare on Betty. “And I’m picking where we’re going.”

“You’re a little bossy, aren’t you?” Betty’s grinning like she thinks that’s the best thing ever, and Darcy crosses her arms and does her best Coulson impression.

“I’m currently hung over and not wearing _pants_. That is how my day is going. This is my life.” She uncrosses her arms to wave them around, because Coulson impressions are all well and good, but sometimes you need to really get the point across with big, showy gestures. If she grazes Betty a tiny bit, then that’s just gravy. “An average day involves waking up in a talking house with superheroes who feed and leer at me while I walk around with no bottoms because my supposed best friend _stole all my pants_. And I want waffles, but I don’t have my wallet, because I don’t have pockets. Because, you know, _pants_.”

“Right,” Betty says. She drums her fingers on the strap of her purse and scrunches her lips to the side. Darcy reaches out and smacks a guy who’s not so subtly trying to take a cell phone picture of her.

“Tony Stark is more of a gentleman than you,” she snarls at him as he scrambles out of her reach. “Tony. Fucking. Stark.”

“Okay,” Betty says. She hooks her arm through Darcy’s, apparently immune to her grumpy spitting, and starts off down the sidewalk. “Waffles it is. But I choose the place.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Darcy tries to glare at her and ends up just leaning in a little closer, because her perfume is weirdly soothing and makes Darcy want to roll over on her back and purr a little bit. “That doesn’t make me like you.”

“Of course it does.”

Darcy pokes Betty in the side with her elbow and Betty arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow at her; Darcy wonders if it would be out of line to ask if she waxes or plucks. “Okay, fine. Maybe it does.” She pauses while Betty beams down at her, and adds, “Bitch.”

Betty just laughs.

* * *

“So I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Betty says. “And we should probably get that straightened out, because I’m going to be around for a while.”

“Of course you are,” Darcy says. She nods her thanks at the waitress when she places a plate loaded with fluffy, golden waffles in front of her, then eyes Betty. “Exactly how ‘around’ are we talking?”

 “That really depends. Thank you,” Betty says with a wide, white smile when her own plate is put down.  “Director Fury offered me a permanent job at SHIELD and I intend to formally accept on Monday.”

Darcy’s never had heart burn before in her life, but she really wants to believe that that’s what she’s feeling right now. She pokes the melting butter around on top of her waffles violently enough to tear a hole in one. “We still probably won’t see each other all that often. I can’t imagine you’ll be leaving the lab too much.”

The lab where Bruce works, and she’ll probably be at the tower a lot too, and is there seriously not going to be a single place in the entire city where Darcy can have Bruce to herself for five fucking minutes? Not that she should even be thinking that. Darcy is a lot of things, but she’s never been a cheater or a home wrecker, and she’s not about to start now, no matter how fluffy Bruce’s hair is or how sweet his eyes are or how much she loves the way he scrunches up his nose whenever she makes him eat something strange.

“Darcy,” Betty says, and there’s a kindness in her voice that reminds Darcy of nothing so much of the way her mother sounded when she told her about McScruff. Betty knows. Of course, Betty knows. She’s brilliant and beautiful and has ridiculous observational skills that make Darcy want to stab a pillow with a spork. Darcy holds up a finger while she pours most of the container of blackberry syrup over her stack of waffles to stall. After a few moments, when she feels a little more prepared to get the ‘keep your hands off my man’ speech, she motions for her to continue. Betty huffs a small laugh and cuts into her egg white omelet. “You seem to think that Bruce and I are together.”

“Yeah, well, walking in on two people whose back story reads like the hit romcom of the summer kissing will generally give me that impression.” She pauses, her eyes narrowing, and points her butter knife at Betty. “Does he think you’re together? Are you leading him on? Because if you hurt him, I don’t care how fabulous your bone structure is, I will fucking cut you.”

“No,” Betty says quickly, her fork clattering onto her plate when she raises both her hands. Her eyes are wide, and she looks borderline panicked. “ _No,_ Darcy, I’m not leading him on. I would never do _anything_ to hurt Bruce. I love him.”

Darcy already knew that. Anyone with eyes probably knew that, but that doesn’t make hearing it any easier. Her already finicky stomach clenches suddenly, and Darcy pushes her waffles away without taking a single bite.

“You love him, but the two of you aren’t together. So this is, what, you telling me to get out of the way?” Darcy smirks, and she knows without having to see it that it’s an ugly, bitter thing. “Because I have to tell you, there’s no way I’m any kind of competition for you.”

Betty combs her fingers through her hair and her smooth brow creases into a frustrated frown. “You’re getting this all wrong. I’m not with Bruce, I have no intention of being with Bruce, and I’m fucking _happy_ that he found you.”

“What, he’s not good enough for you?” Darcy shreds her napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. “You don’t have a problem with the whole ‘Hulk’ thing, do you? Because he’s a total sweetie once you get past the smashing.”

“I’m really going to need you to stop twisting what I’m saying,” Betty says, her face connecting solidly with her palm.

“My head hurts,” Darcy says petulantly. “My head hurts, and the love of my not-boyfriend’s life is suddenly back in the picture, so forgive me if you have to use small, simple words with me this morning.”

“And you still don’t have any pants on,” Betty points out, one corner of her mouth twitching up in the small beginning of a smile.

“Yes, that too.” Darcy nods.

“I’m not with Bruce, even though I’ll always love him and think he’s an amazing guy, because I’m engaged to someone else,” Betty says, holding out her left hand as proof. The diamond on her ring finger is big enough that even Tony would probably think it’s overkill. Darcy wonders how much she could pawn it for. "Darcy, Bruce is an absolutely amazing man, and I doubt I'll ever stop loving him, but after he left I moved on. I had to. For all I knew, he was never going to be able to come back to me, and he wouldn't let me go with him. It wouldn't have been fair to either of us to try and stay committed to each other when we were in a situation where we had no future. I fell in love with someone else, and Bruce is nothing but a very dear friend to me now."

“And Bruce knows this,” Darcy asks, her voice dangerous.

“Of course. I would never hide anything like that from Bruce. The engagement's why he kissed me.” Betty sighs and twists the ring around her finger. “He was congratulating me, and then we went out to dinner with my fiancé.”

“Okay,” Darcy says. She sweeps her scraps of paper into a pile to keep her hands busy and frowns. “Let me get this straight. You’re not here to get back together with Bruce, you’re engaged to someone else, and you like me?”

“Well, not so much right now, but basically,” Betty says with a weary grin.

Darcy swallows thickly and nods.

“You caught me on a bad day. I’m usually much more endearing than this.”

Betty chuckles and takes a sip of her probably cold coffee. “I believe that. It would have to take someone special to capture Bruce’s attention the way you have.”

She can’t help the smile at that, and after a moment she realizes that she doesn’t have to. “You think,” she asks. Her brain is already switching gears, reclassifying Betty from The Enemy to someone who seems to inexplicably like her and who has valuable inside information on Bruce. “Sometimes it seems like he might be interested, but most of the time I don’t think he knows what to make of me at all. I don't want to scare him off or anything, you know?”

“Oh, I can guarantee that he has no idea what to do with you,” Betty says with the kind of loud, free laugh that makes more than a few people in the diner turn to look at them. “That doesn’t make him any less smitten though.”

Darcy grins and pulls her waffles back in front of her. “Smitten?”

“Like a kitten,” Betty says with a wink, and then Darcy’s laughing too.

“You know this means you have to tell me _everything_ about him, right?” Darcy asks around a mouthful of waffles.

Betty leans across the table to wipe a smear of syrup off her cheek with a napkin and says, “Oh, definitely,” with a wicked grin that makes Darcy pretty certain they’re going to be _very_ good friends by the end of this.

* * *

“Just so we’re clear,” Betty says later while they’re shopping for pants. “If you break his heart, I’ll do everything I can to make your life miserable.”

Darcy looks at Betty’s reflection behind her in the mirror and puts her hands on her hips. “Unsurprising.” She twists a little to see how her ass looks in the purple jeans she has on, smiles sweetly, and says, “And if you ever kiss him again, I’ll pull your pretty, pretty hair out at the roots.”

Betty stares hard at her for a moment, then nods once. “Deal.”


	12. Chapter 12

Everyone’s crowded into the living room when Darcy and Betty get back. (And seriously, Darcy wonders, what is up with these people that they spend _all their time with each other_? Is this secretly an episode of Friends that got completely out of hand?) Bruce, Tony, and Steve are crowded together at one end of the room with matching expressions of vaguely amused terror on their faces. On a couch at the other end of the room, Jane is painting Natasha’s toenails a deep red while Natasha does Clint’s up in violet.  
  
Right, so business as usual then.  
  
“You never let me paint your toenails,” Darcy says with a pout as she flops down on the couch by Clint. When Betty just stands there, Darcy snags her wrist and pulls her down to sit on the armrest.  
  
“You whine,” Natasha says. She pulls her foot out of Jane’s grasp and twists it this way and that to examine it. After a moment, she puts it back in Jane’s lap with a self satisfied little smile that blends into a blank poker face when she tells Darcy, “I had no choice with Foster. She blinded me with science.”  
  
“You’re dead to me,” Darcy says to Jane, because that seriously isn’t even worth responding to. It’s really hard to blind someone with political science, okay? “Until I have at least ninety percent of my pants back? Dead like my aunt Bertha.”  
  
“She’s the one who had a fake leg,” Betty asks, her head tilting slightly to the side.  
  
“Yes.” Darcy tugs on Betty until she slides down into the sliver of space between Darcy and the armrest. They’re wedged borderline uncomfortably tight together, but when Jane arches an eyebrow, Darcy jerks her chin up and says, “This is Betty. She’s my honorary best friend until you give me back my pants.”  
  
“I think I might have given them to homeless Larry who lives in front of my building,” Jane says as she starts stroking a clear topcoat over Natasha’s toenails. “I can’t remember, but if he has them, he’ll probably give them back for one of your barbeque sandwiches. He really likes those.”  
  
“Homeless Larry doesn’t even wear the same size as me!”  
  
“Does anyone have any clue what’s going on here,” Tony asks.  
  
“I don’t think I want to know,” Bruce answers, once again proving that he’s a very smart man. Darcy grins at him and tries to picture him with kitten ears. Ooo.  
  
“I know what your next Halloween costume should be,” she tells him, and Bruce suddenly looks about a thousand times more apprehensive than he did a second earlier.  
  
“Wait,” Jane cuts in, because she’s not always as oblivious as she appears. “Betty? As in Betty-from-last-night Betty?”  
  
“Yep,” Darcy says. She bumps her head against Betty’s shoulder in silent apology, because even though she wasn’t actually there, Betty’s sharp enough to probably figure out the kinds of things Darcy was saying about her. “New best friend. I would say Natasha, but she doesn’t have friends so much as people she keeps around for her own amusement and diabolical purposes.”  
  
Natasha looks smug, and Darcy would try to high five her, except…that didn’t end so great the last time.  
  
Jane arches an eyebrow. “Shawn would not approve.”  
  
“Who the hell is Shawn,” Tony cuts in to ask. He’s managed to acquire a bag of popcorn from somewhere, and Darcy really doesn’t even want to know, except for how she really does. Because magical popcorn from nowhere? Coolio! She wonders if it comes in cinnamon.  
  
“The one who makes Bruce look like someone kicked his puppy in the face,” Clint answers, his voice slurred enough that Darcy leans over to check if he’s been drinking. He hasn’t, but Natasha’s switched from painting his toenails to massaging his instep, and he’s little more than a puddle of relaxed, muscley archer right now. “Darcy’s new beau.”  
  
“Only if Darcy suddenly sprouts a penis,” Jane interjects. When that’s met with a resounding silence, she clarifies, “Because he’s gay.”  
  
“Oh, did we get confirmation on that?” Darcy asks, momentarily forgetting that Jane is dead to her. Or maybe she’s just channeling her inner medium. Those guys can’t get enough of talking to the dead. Always yak yak yakking about the best materials for caskets and where the murder weapon is hidden. (That’s what Darcy assumes, at least. It would make sense, right?)  
  
“Yeah, if the way he was waxing poetic about his boyfriend while you spent twenty minutes in the bathroom is anything to go by? Definitely gay. I mean, I could run some studies, maybe try to scrounge up a control group, but I think we have pretty conclusive evidence.”  
  
“I spent twenty minutes in the bathroom and you didn’t check on me? Jane, why would you not have checked on me?" Darcy's pout is reaching the sort of epic proportions that Jane would have to invent some kind of new theorem to measure. Betty's shaking next to her, but Darcy chooses to believe she's quietly sobbing on Darcy's behalf, not laughing at her misfortune. "Something could have been horribly wrong. I might have been dead or passed out or trying to get my shoe out of the toilet bowl all by myself. Jane, I could have become a _statistic_!”  
  
Tony offers some of his popcorn to Bruce and Steve, who both absently takes a handful. Steve munches on his, but Bruce just crumbles the popped kernels between his fingers.  
  
“You like statistics,” Jane says dismissively.  
  
“Not when I _am_ one!”  
  
And then Thor crashes in through the window, because apparently they don’t have doors in Asgard, and there goes the rest of the day.

* * *

Darcy jerks awake with a choked off gasp, a scream caught as a lump in her throat that escapes as a whimper. Her blankets are twisted around her legs, and when Darcy tries to kick them away, she gets even more tangled up in them and ends up sliding off the bed and landing with a painful thud. Fucking hardwood floor and the fucking billionaires who insist on them. She concentrates on evening out her breathing, slow in, slow out, until her heartbeat slows to where she can't feel it pulsing beneath her skin. It's slow going, but she has the weak, groggy feeling that means she's only been asleep for a few hours, so she has all night to come down from her adrenaline high.  
  
When she can breathe again, she curls down to pull the blankets away and uses one corner of her sheet to wipe the sheen of sweat from her face. Darcy's legs are shaky when she pushes up to her feet, and her hands tremble when she presses the heels of them against her closed eyes, but she grits her teeth and tries to channel her inner Coulson. The tremor in her hands is barely visible when she pulls her robe on over her pajamas, and she's walking a straight line by the time she's a few feet from her bedroom door.  
  
The light is already on in the kitchen, and she pauses outside the doorway, her fingertips resting lightly on the frame. There's a mirror in the hallways, so Darcy knows she's still a little wild looking around the eyes, and she looks about as ragged as she ever gets; this is not a night for midnight meetings. But then again, her emergency honey buns are hidden in the bread box, so it's really no contest.  
  
Bruce is sitting up at the kitchen island, surrounded by a small sea of paper, and he's so engrossed in the equations he's scribbling that it isn't until Darcy clears her throat that he looks up at her.  
  
"Can't sleep or did you just lose track of time," Darcy asks. Judging from the state of Bruce's hair, he's been at this for a while now.  
  
Bruce scrubs his hand over the stubble on his cheek with an audible rasp and works his jaw in the way that means he's trying to swallow a yawn. "Both?"  
  
"Right, okay," Darcy says, because this calls for a change in plan. "Are you actually getting anything done right now?"  
  
Bruce starts to look down, and Darcy rounds the island to grab his elbow.  
  
"Nope, if you have to look, then you aren't." She tugs on Bruce's arm, ready to put up a fight if she needs to. Bruce looks sleepy and bemused, but slides off the stool easily and follows Darcy into the living room without question.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Well, almost without question. Darcy snatches a blanket from a chest in the corner, pushes Bruce down into an armchair, and then snuggles in next to him. "We're watching bad midnight movies." She smooths the blanket over their laps. The remote is on Bruce's side, and he passes it to her when she looks from it to him. Darcy's used to not being able to find anything but infomercials this time of night, but Tony's got some kind of ridiculous satellite package and it only takes a few minutes of flipping before she lands on My Fair Lady. "This okay?"  
  
"Yeah." She can feel Bruce hesitate, but then his arm settles around her shoulder. He doesn't pull her closer, just lets it rest there, light and ready to pull away at a moment's notice. "I haven't watched this in years."  
  
Darcy shifts a little bit, slinging one of her legs over the armrest, and settles in with her back pressed to Bruce's side. His arm wavers a little, like he doesn't know where to put it, and Darcy takes his hand in both of hers and pulls his arm down and around her until it's comfortably pressing down across her chest. "It's a classic."  
  
"It's not easy," Bruce says quietly. His mouth is very close to Darcy's head, and when he speaks his breath stirs her hair. She can't help the shiver that zips down her spine, but Bruce seems to think she's just chilled, because he pulls the blanket over her a little more as he continues. "Learning how to be an entirely new person? Getting a glimpse into a world that's completely different from what you're used to, having to relearn all the rules you thought you already knew. There's nothing easy about that."  
  
Darcy squeezes his hand, because seriously, what can she say to that. She can't hear his sigh, but she can feel it in the rise and fall of his chest.  
  
"Were you going to tell me?"  
  
Darcy frowns and turns away from Eliza Doolittle trying to enunciate around a mouthful of marbles to look up at Bruce. "Tell you what?"  
  
Bruce cups her cheek and lightly strokes the pad of his thumb over the dark bruise under one of her eyes. His mouth turns down in a small, unhappy frown. "Were you ever going to tell me about the nightmares?"  
  
"I have it under control," Darcy tells him. Bruce's frown deepens and she hurries on to reassure him. "I have counseling sessions and coping exercises and everything. Really, it's all cool. Everything's completely cool. Good. Peachy keen."  
  
"That's not what I asked." Bruce's hand drifts down until his fingers are stretched out wide over where the paper thin pink scars are hidden by the layers of her robe and shirt. "You could have told me, you know."  
  
Darcy shrugs and looks down at where her hands are curled around his wrist. "Honestly, it just didn't seem worth it to bother you."  
  
"Darcy," Bruce says. That thread of steel is back in his voice, and when he bends his head to press a kiss to the spot right where her neck joins her shoulder, a rush of heat floods through her so strongly that she pushes the blanket away. "You never bother me. You never _will_ bother me, but I do worry about you. You have to know I care about you."  
  
"You care about me," she echoes. Darcy sighs and shakes her head. "You care and Coulson cares and Natasha cares and Clint cares and Steve and Tony care. Fuck, even Fury cares if the taxidermied squirrel, which was clearly supposed to be anonymous and totally wasn't, that I found on my desk is anything to go by. It's actually pretty cool," she says, glancing up in Bruce's general direction without actually looking at him. "It's a letter opener sharpener, and the sharpener is in its neck. Very therapeutic on a bad day.  
  
"Darcy," Bruce says again, and he sounds so tired that Darcy twists in his arms so that she can look at him full on.  
  
"I know you care about me," she tells him as seriously as she can. "What I want to know is how _much_."  
  
Bruce's brow furrows and he cards his fingers through his hair. "I don't think I understand."  
  
Darcy shifts again, resettles so that she's straddling Bruce's lap, and frames his face with her hands. "Bruce," she says, leaning in until their noses are brushing. When he doesn't pull back, she closes that last tiny distance between them. Bruce's lips are chapped and he tastes of too old coffee, and their noses bump a little too much until Darcy tilts her head. Bruce stays still long enough that Darcy starts second guessing herself, but then Bruce's mouth is parting just slightly underneath hers and his bottom lip is caught between hers. The kiss is as sweet as sugar melting on her tongue, and she swallows whatever Bruce is trying to say, because if this is her only chance at this, she wants it to last as long as possible.  
  
Everything stays relatively chaste, Bruce's hands never straying from her waist and both of their mouths barely open, but when Darcy breaks the kiss with a tiny, slick sound, she would be willing to go on record calling it the best kiss of her life.  
  
Her breath is unsteady again, and her hands slide down to Bruce's neck, because she needs to see as much of his face as she can. Bruce looks shell shocked, but his eyes track her tongue when it darts out to lick her lips.  
  
"How much do you care about me," she asks, voice rough as sandpaper. "Is it that much? Or have we been dancing around this thing for nothing?"  
  
"Yeah," Bruce exhales. He traces her lower lip with his thumb, and Darcy purses her lips against it in a small kiss that still makes her blood sing. Bruce opens his mouth. Darcy can practically see the excuses and the 'but's all ready to start tumbling out, so Darcy kisses him quickly again to stop him.  
  
"Okay," she says, her words a bare whisper against Bruce's lips, and she pulls in a stuttering breath to steel her nerves. "Then you should really take me to bed."


	13. Chapter 13

Darcy might have kissed Bruce first, but he's the one who can't seem to stop kissing her as they stumble down the hallway to his bedroom. (It's not even a little bit closer, but Darcy's honestly a little afraid of taking Bruce back to hers, where he'll be more likely to make a break for it if his cold feet come back.) They stop several times, Bruce backing her against the wall or the occasional door frame to catch her lips with his. That's fine with Darcy; more than fine, actually. Bruce kisses like he's made for it, all soft, wet heat that gets her wound up tighter and tighter until she's clutching at his shoulders to keep her knees from buckling, and only backing off when she can't hold back a whimper or a high, thin keen. Then he's taking her by the hand again, always with an inexplicably shy downcast of his eyes, and leading her further down the hallway.

He can't seem to stop touching her. His fingers flit over the inward curve of her waist, the barely there cut of her shoulder blades, the back of her neck. She threads her fingers into his hair, scraping her nails down from crown to nape, and his grip tightens where he's palming her hip.

They hesitate outside the door to his room. Bruce starts to say something, little more than a huff escaping, before he shakes his head sharply and cups Darcy's cheek. He kisses her slowly and carefully, like he's afraid he might suddenly Hulk out and break her, and when he touches the tip of his tongue to her lower lip, Darcy sighs and opens to him. His other arm comes up around her waist, reeling her in just that much closer. Darcy lets him; she thinks she would let him do pretty much anything he wants so long as he keeps kissing her like this.

Bruce is the one shaking when he breaks the kiss this time, but he doesn't let her go or even really back off. He keeps his arms tight around her and rests his forehead against hers. “We don't have to take this any farther than we already have. You're tired and you're hurting, and shut up,” he says when she starts to protest. “I know you are, even if you won't admit it. Do you think I don't watch you?”

She can feel the heat of his flush against her skin, the gradual increase of the tremor in his hands, and since he won't let her say anything, she soothingly smooths her hands up and down the tense planes of his back.

“You're vulnerable right now,” Bruce says. His voice cracks like something inside of him physically breaks from having to vocalize that thought. “I don't want to take advantage of you.” He pauses, pulls in a slow, stuttering breath. “And I don't want this if it's only a one time thing.”

“You're not,” Darcy says. She tips her chin up, ghosting her lips lightly over his. “And it isn't. It _really_ isn't.”

“God,”Bruce says. There's something not unlike awe in his expression that makes Darcy feel like she's filled with helium, and she kisses his chin because it's there and she hasn't had a chance to yet. “Where did you even _come_ from?”

Darcy laughs--her entire body shakes with it and her head tips back and she can feel tears springing up in the corners of her eyes, but she tamps it down to a broad grin when Bruce makes a questioning noise. She fists one hand in the front of his shirt, closes the other over the doorknob, and starts walking them backwards. “Well, you see, when a man and a woman love each other very, very much...”

She's pretty certain that when Bruce kisses her this time, it's mostly to shut her up. It's okay; she can work with that.

Darcy shrugs her robe off right inside the doorway, and she'd feel worse about letting it just fall on Bruce's floor like that, but his hands are skimming up her side underneath the thin cotton of her shirt, so she's pretty certain he hasn't noticed. His mouth is harder on hers with a desperation lurking under the surface now where before there had been a tender hesitance. He presses her back further into the room, and when the backs of her legs bump up against the side of his bed, she clutches at him so that he topples down on top of it with her.

Instead of speeding up, things grind almost to a stop once they're on the bed. It's not bad or anything—Bruce seems determined to memorize her neck and collar bones with his lips, which is all kinds of shivery goodness—but his hands don't stray from where they're bracketing her hips, and he tenses when Darcy slips the very tips of her fingers under the front of his waistband. And it's obviously not that he isn't interested, because one of his legs is slotted between hers and Darcy can feel exactly how much he's turned on right now against her upper thigh, but he doesn't seem in any hurry to take it further. 

A suspicion slowly creeps over her.

“Bruce,” Darcy says, and her voice sounds heavy and drugged to her own ears, so she can only imagine how she sounds to him. Bruce pauses for half a heartbeat, but then he's right back to tracing the tendon in her neck with his tongue, and Darcy has to yank gently on his hair to get him to look up at her.

“Bruce,” she says, a little more normally this time, and Bruce licks swollen lips as he gazes down at her. “You've been on the road for a while now, right? And you don't exactly socialize.”

She can feel the tension that's suddenly just there in his body when his fight or flight impulse kicks in, and she knows he knows where she's going with this. It's awkward, yeah, but they've never exactly had a problem with that before, so she see no reason to let that get in her way now.

“Exactly how long has it been for you?”

“Darcy,” he hedges, and Darcy pulls him down into a long, searching kiss. She keeps things easy, barely licking back past his teeth before retreating and just enough pressure that she can feel the slight tingle in her already bruised lips, and she can feel Bruce's tension ease out of him bit by bit with each teasing nibble. She presses a last, short kiss to the soft bow of his upper lip before trying again.

“You can tell me,” she says. “I can guess, if that's easier? Blink once for yes and twice for no or something like that?”

“Darcy,” Bruce says, but there's an undercurrent of laughter there that wasn't there before, and he smiles sweetly at her for a moment before it falters. “It's been a while.” His eyes shutter, and he strokes his thumb absently along her hipbone, that familiar old nervous fidgeting that's been slowly dying away suddenly back in full force. “Since Betty.”

“Okay,” Darcy says, because she doesn't really want to think about that, but it's good to know. “Slow is okay, you know? I'm totally down with slow if that's how you want to do this. I wouldn't normally lay that out there, but it seems like that's something you're interested in, and I know Jane says a lot of things about me, but it's not like I'm a complete speed demon in the sack, so--”

“Stop,” Bruce says, and this time she has no idea what that tone is, but it's not one she's entirely comfortable with. 

She takes a deep breath. “I'm just saying, this is good. This isn't the only chance we have, you know? So we can take our time. And I like this.”

“This,” Bruce asks, dipping to press a wet, open mouthed kiss to the hinge of her jaw, and that right there is definitely a tease. Cheeky man.

“Yeah,” Darcy breathes. She rolls them onto their sides, hooks a leg over his thighs, and guides his mouth back to one of the more sensitive spots on her neck. “This. This is totally good.”

And it's been a long time since Darcy's slept with someone without really doing anything more than  _sleeping_ , but she's found that she's willing—no, not just willing,  _happy—_ to do all sorts of things she normally doesn't where Bruce is concerned. 


	14. Chapter 14

“I'm dangerous, you know,” Bruce says about the same time that the sun is beginning to break over the horizon, bleeding pink and orange across the white sheets they have pulled up nearly to their necks. Darcy tangles their feet together and rolls her eyes, which she thinks is a remarkable feat of coordination considering how early it is and how little sleep she's had.

“Awesome.” Darcy finds Bruce's hand under the covers and threads their fingers together. “You can kick the ass of anyone who tries to mess with me, then.”

Bruce huffs a laugh that's more surprise than humor, and shuffles them around until Darcy's tucked under his arm with her head on his shoulder. “I'm serious. When the Other Guy comes out--I can't control it. Not the way I need to. If he breaks out without my letting him, he's irrational. He could hurt you and never even know it.”

Darcy presses her palm over the center of Bruce's chest, scratches her fingers lightly through the hair there. “Yes,” she says slowly, attempting to blink the sleep out of her eyes. This isn't the kind of conversation she needs to have while half asleep. “And I could go out with some ordinary guy, and he could take me out for a drive in the country and wrap his car around a tree. There are always risks. The question is when does the risk outweigh the gain.” She turns her head to kiss his shoulder, allows herself a moment to taste the hot, salty tang of his skin. “And just in case you're wondering? You're totally worth it.”

“And the other thing,” Bruce starts, his voice trailing off into nothing. It's still fairly dim, but there's enough light now that Darcy can make out the faint flush darkening the edge of his cheekbones. She pushes up onto her elbow so she can look down and arch an eyebrow at him.

“What other thing?”

Bruce clears his throat, and now the tips of his ears are pink too, but his hand is steady enough when he skims his fingers over the swell of her hip. “The age thing.”

Darcy just blinks down at him.

Bruce sighs.

“Darcy,” he says and he's not quite able to meet her eyes. They're really going to have to work on that. “I'm twenty years older than you. I know you're not always a fan of the details--” and Darcy is seriously never going to live down mixing up the sugar and salt that _one time_ , is she?--“but that can't possibly have escaped your notice.”

“Right,” Darcy says, and flops back down on top of him. His chest hair is scratchy against her cheek, and she rubs her face against it for a moment while she thinks. “Okay,” she says finally. “Unless you're going to suddenly start yelling at me to get off your lawn, I don't see the 'age thing' as being a problem.”

“I'd probably have to get a cane for that to really be effective,” Bruce muses, and Darcy giggles and nips at his clavicle.

“In fact, we could make it a plus!” She grins and waggles her eyebrows at him. “Think of how much easier this will make some games. You're the professor and I'm the girl who needs to bump her grade up a few points.”

“Darcy,” Bruce says, and his voice is exasperated, but the laugh lines around his eyes are a little more creased than usual.

“The young, impressionable secretary and her boss who just wants to bend her over his desk and have his way with her.”

“Oh god, stop,” Bruce says, unable to stop what Darcy can only call giggles. She lets him roll her over onto her back, spreads her legs so he can settle between them, and curls her toes into the softly worn hem at the bottom of his sleep pants.

“Why,” she asks. She shutters her eyes, looks up at him through the thick fringe of her eyelashes, bites her lower lip coyly. “Am I being naughty? Do I need a _spanking_?”

Bruce is laughing when he kisses her, and the vibration of it slipping into her mouth and spreading out through her body tingles like a static shock.

* * *

It's a much more reasonable hour when Darcy finally rolls out of Bruce's bed. Bruce is still asleep, body curved around the empty space where she had been laying, and he looks so sweetly young and relaxed that she doesn't have the heart to wake him up. Instead, she leaves her robe draped across the end of the bed where he won't be able to miss it in lieu of a note and steals her favorite of his shirts. It's a deep purple, nearly violet, and it smells like him when she tugs it on. She only does up a handful of the buttons and lets the collar gape so that it's hanging off of her shoulder, bare except for the thin strap of her sleep shirt. The sleeves hang down over her fingertips. She fists her hands in the cuffs and presses her face against the fabric covering her wrists, inhaling for a moment, then shuffles down the hallway toward the scent of coffee with a smile she can't shake.

Tony's in the kitchen when she gets there. He doesn't even have the good manners to do a double take when he sees her, just whistles lowly and leans back against the counter.

“JARVIS, who made the first move,” he asks while he holds a mug out for Darcy. Darcy scowls at him, because, hello, she's _right here_ , but then she has to stop because the coffee really is super good.

“Miss Lewis did, sir,” JARVIS says, and when Darcy toasts him with her mug, he adds, “If I might say so, I believe the two of you suit each other exceptionally well, and I wish you and Dr. Banner all the happiness, Miss Lewis.”

“Thanks,” Darcy says and blows a kiss in the direction of the nearest security camera.

“Fuck.” Tony pouts, only perking up a little bit when Darcy shoves him out of the way so that she can get into the pantry. There are maple bacon muffins that need baking, and she's just the person to do it.

“Fuck,” Darcy asks dangerously, because she honestly doesn't care if it is Tony's tower and Tony's food and Tony's kitchen, all of that does _not_ automatically entitle him to a muffin.

Tony shrugs. “I owe Steve a hundred bucks.” Darcy borrows her mom's best 'what the fuck are you talking about, and it had better not be what I think it is, but if it is then you need to make this  _good_ ' look.

Tony looks fascinated by it, but not cowed, and Darcy adds it to the list of things that prove Tony isn't entirely human.

“I wanted to believe in the big guy,” Tony says as he stirs a swirl of melted caramel into his coffee; Darcy doesn't even know where he got it from, but she's more than willing to admit that the man has serious skills when it comes to that sort of thing. “I was convinced I could get him to at least ask you out before you pulled a Darcy.”

“I don't even know what that means,” Darcy says. She should probably feel a little insulted right now, but mostly she's just intrigued.

“You're not subtle.” Tony's lips twitch like he knows exactly how funny that sounds coming from a guy who flies around in a red and gold metal suit. “And you have a talent for getting the things you want.” He pauses to sip his coffee and watches her watching him over the rim of his mug. “And everyone could tell you wanted Bruce, but then you already knew that.”

“I have good taste,” Darcy says, and they grin at each other and clink their mugs together.

There isn't any real maple syrup in the pantry, but Darcy finds sour cream and a tub of fresh blueberries in the fridge, and she starts pulling out everything she needs to make a loaf of blueberry sour cream quick bread instead. Tony perches on a stool and watches her while she makes it, occasionally interrupting her to ask things like why she adds each egg to the sugar and butter individually and how much of difference it would make if she used measuring cups instead of a scale. Darcy answers what she can, ignores what she can't, and tries not to be surprised when Tony starts scribbling what looks like a very advanced chemistry equation in between the occasional long, hard look at her ingredients.

Tony's in front of the oven watching the bread bake through the glass door when Bruce comes in. 

His hair is a mess, sticking up in at least a dozen different directions at once, and his eyes are puffy and soft with sleep, but he slides an arm around her waist and murmurs, “Good morning,” against her mouth in a sweet whisper of a kiss, like it's something they do every day, and Darcy melts a lot more than a little bit.

“Morning,” she says, flipping up the collar of Bruce's shirt, which is high enough to cover most of her lower face and hopefully cover most of her blush. Not that it matters if he sees her blushing, especially considering how shy her voice suddenly sounds.

There's a new coffee mug on the counter, even though Tony hasn't moved and Darcy didn't get it out, and Darcy wonders how merciful JARVIS will be to her once he takes over the world. Bruce doesn't notice the magic of the coffee mug though; he's too busy drinking it. After his first cup, which he always drinks black, standing directly in front of the pot, in a long swallow that has Darcy near hypnotized by the bob of his adam's apple. 

With his second cup, he actually takes the time to fix it and slowly sips at the drink as he crosses back over to the kitchen island. He sits on the stool that Tony left vacated, and draws Darcy in with nothing more than a sleepy eyed look. She stands between his legs, and Bruce pulls her closer with a hand on her hip, leans in to hook his chin over her shoulder, and takes another careful drink of his coffee. Darcy, because there's nothing actually objectionable about it--quite the opposite, really--links her arms around his back and sways almost imperceptibly as he holds her.

The oven dings, and Tony asks, “What do you think it would do to the composition of the bread if the blueberries were frozen going in?” and Darcy presses her face against Bruce's chaotic hair and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, at the risk of jinxing this, the next chapter should be the last. I have a sequel planned, but I don't know if I'm going to start that right away or take a short break to work on some oneshots and concentrate on my big bangs. Whatever I end up doing, I am _so thankful_ for how sweet and supportive all of you have been through this process. I know I'll gush about it again at the actual end, but I just want to say thank you again before then.  <3 You guys rock my socks off!


	15. Chapter 15

“Coulson's House of Pain, please be concise and to the point or we'll be forced to test the new attack tigers on your face,” Darcy chirps into the phone. Coulson looks up from where he's searching for something in her filing cabinet, eyebrow arched nearly up into his hairline, which is a pretty neat trick. Darcy blows him a kiss, and he rolls his eyes, but doesn't yell at her. Darcy doodles hearts in the margins of his latest batch of debriefs.

“I'm fairly certain that's not how they recommend answering the phones during training,” Bruce says dryly, and Darcy grins and kicks her feet up on top of her desk.

“Shows what you know. They didn't actually train me.” It's true, which either makes that a hell of a lot more funny or a hell of a lot less. She can't quite decide, but she gets to make Fury look constipated on a regular basis and then handwave it away with a 'Well, if you'd just _trained_ me...' that he clearly doesn't buy, but still lets pass. 

“That explains so much about so many things.” There's a muffled sound in the background, a scruffling, whining noise that Darcy can't quite place, but Bruce makes a placating sound in the back of his throat, and Darcy's fingers tighten around the phone.

“Everything alright there on your end?” She keeps her voice even, her tone light, but Coulson looks at her with sharp eyes that see right through it. She waves him off when he tilts his head in question, and he drops a Hershey kiss on her desk when he passes it on his way back to his office. “Nothing going on that I'm going to be seeing on the news tonight?”

Another noise, this one more of a thud, and then a sharp exhale from Bruce that sounds more like surprise than pain, which isn't necessarily less worrying.

“Fine,” Bruce says, his voice a little higher than usual. “Everything's good here.”

Darcy lets her feet fall back to the floor and leans forward in her chair. “Right. Why don't I believe you?”

“I can't help it if you have trust issues.” Bruce grunts, and Darcy's on her feet before he even starts to say, “Could you come down to the lobby and give me a hand with something?”

“On my way,” Darcy says and drops the phone in its cradle without looking as she snatches her purse up. “Be back later, boss!”

“Just don't do anything that will require me to fill out paperwork,” Coulson says, and Darcy thinks it's pretty much a given that that won't happen.

* * *

Darcy steps off the elevator and stumbles to a stop. She blinks. “Bruce?”

Bruce is on the floor, scuffling with what looks like a small, dirty bear. There's water dripping from his hair and its fur, mud covering both of their coats, and when Bruce looks up there's a large streak of grime on his cheek. He's grinning, wide and happy and open, and Darcy's answering smile is completely involuntary.

“So,” she says, carefully edging closer. The little bear sneezes and leans against Bruce's knee when he scratches behind its droopy ears. “What ya got there, jolly green?”

“I found him digging through a dumpster by that Thai place you like.” There's a slightly squashed bag of take out on the floor next to Bruce, and Darcy pushes it out of the way with her toe, then kneels next to him. Once they're on the same level, Bruce leans in to catch her mouth in soft, 'hello' sort of kiss, and his lips are a little gritty from whatever it is he's gotten in to, but Darcy hums happily into the kiss anyway. He pulls back, presses another short kiss to the side of her neck, and coaxes the little bear closer to her. “I've already cleared it with Tony.”

He looks so pleased with himself that Darcy bites back the, “Cleared what, opening your own national park, complete with pick-a-nick baskets?” that wants to escape. Some of her confusion must show through, though, because Bruce's face falls a little.

“I mean, if you want. I just thought it was something you might want. We can always find it a home.”

The little Yogi wannabe yawns then, and Darcy looks down at it and sees the wide stretch of its mouth, hears the high whine that accompanies it, and when she blinks it's suddenly easier to see through the muck and grime.

“Oh my god,” she says, and she feels like one of those beauty pageant contestants, but she fans her face with one hand and tries to blink back the tears that suddenly spring up in her eyes. “You got me a _dog_?”

Bruce's smile makes a tentative comeback, and he brushes a bead of dampness from the corner of her eye. “Only if you like the idea. We really don't have to keep him if you don't want to.”

“Are you kidding me? I _love_ the idea,” Darcy says. She laughs wetly and takes the puppy's face in her hands. “I'm going to call you Shazam, and if anyone ever tries to throw a rock at you, I'll have your Auntie Natasha _destroy them_.” She kisses Shazam on the snout, not even caring that he really, really needs a bath, then turns to kiss Bruce. She licks back past his teeth to curl her tongue around his, deepening the kiss until he gasps and squeezes her hip tightly. Someone walking through the lobby wolf whistles, and Darcy absently flips them off.

Bruce laughs and breaks the kiss, though, his cheeks bright red. “You know, if you hate the idea, you could always tell me,” Bruce teases.

The puppy nudges his nose up under Darcy's elbow and she wraps an arm around his neck. “No take backs. I love him.” She bumps their noses together and says, “I love  you.”

Bruce's breath catches and he swallows roughly. “Don't.” He says, and his voice sounds like he's taken sandpaper to his vocal cords. “Don't say that unless you mean it.”

She pulls him in for a slow, sweet kiss, nibbles gently at his lower lip until he opens up the slightest bit. “I do,” she says against his mouth. “I have ever since that day I accidentally degreened you in the hallway.”

“That long,” Bruce asks, and he sounds dazed, but not upset. Darcy can work with that. As long as he isn't running away, she can work with it. 

“Yeah.” She kisses his chin, the tip of his nose. “Is that okay?”

“Is it--” Bruce pulls back and stares at her with wide, dark eyes. “Is it okay? It's, Darcy, this is.” He closes his eyes for a moment and a slow smile spreads across his face. “I love you, too.”

“Well, good,” Darcy says, then tackles him back onto the floor, kissing him until Fury walks by and makes an exasperated groaning noise, and then she kisses him some more. Shazam yelps and jumps all over the two of them like this is the best thing ever, and Darcy is pretty damn inclined to agree with him.

* * *

Darcy's still riding the high of puppies and 'I love you's when she gets back to SHIELD the next morning—Fury did eventually kick them out, even if he'd been smirking a little when he did it, and she's pretty certain she saw Agent Hill slipping him a twenty on their way out the door—so she doesn't stop to harass the new recruits she sees huddled like a cluster of nervous kittens in the hallway connected to the small alcove where her desk sits. Instead, she just smirks and flips a limp wristed salute at Agents Robins and Markum, who are apparently on newbie duty today.

“Fuck, please let her be my handler,” she hears one of the recruits whisper to another as she approaches them. They aren't even trying to hide the way they're checking her out, which doesn't speak highly of their subterfuge skills.

“Or I could be hers. That would work too,” the other one responds, and Darcy takes a moment to mourn the apparent fall of SHIELD's hiring standards. Her fingers are itching, twitching almost imperceptibly down the strap of her purse in the direction of her taser, because it would almost be worth having to deal with HR again.

“You're barking up the wrong tree,” Robins says, turning to quirk a small grin at her that Darcy returns when she passes by. “That's Darcy Lewis. She bites.”

“Yeah,” Markum says as he passes her her cut of the betting pool over where the villain of the week would strike. “Also, her boyfriend's a total beast.”

And Darcy smirks, adds a little extra swing to her step, and thinks _fuck yeah, that's right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby Shazam: 
> 
>  
> 
> GUYS. GUYS, IT'S FINISHED. ;_;
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for sticking with me through this entire thing. I still have a lot of plans for this universe, including a sequel, several side stories, and a recipe post for most of the food I mentioned in Things That Shine, so I hope you'll all hang around for that too. This has been an amazing experience and I honestly never expected that when I wrote a tiny ficlet for a kiss meme that it'd spiral out of control the way it has, but I'm so happy that it did.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented, kudoed, bookmarked, recced, or just plain liked this story. Every kind word and thought means more to me than you know.
> 
> Special thanks to Chaerring and The Great Spork Wielder, who have spent the last couple of weeks listening to me rant and rave and flail about this and several other Darcy/Bruce stories and have ranted, raved, and flailed back at me in return. You two rock and I'm thrilled to have stumbled into knowing you through what I thought was going to be a ridiculous crack pairing that would never go anywhere. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [From the Shiny Recipe Box of Darcy C. Lewis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/440539) by [coffeebuddha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha)




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